I wanna fly
by Ciel du Nord
Summary: Being an orphan could be an ordeal, but finding a nice family seemed to switch life from the hard difficulty to the ack-I'm-gonna-die-killed-by-a-freaking-zombie difficulty. Kicking his father in the privates seemed just like a far dream now. Matthew had always been a dreamer anyway.
1. The Witch died

**I wanna fly**

His mother died slowly.

It had started years ago when they arrived in that small town in the middle of nowhere where everybody knew everybody. They - _Matthew and Mother, Mother and Matthew_ \- were unwanted outsiders in that small world. If they wanted to become part of it, they would have to change to meet the expectations of the insiders. And how harsh they were, Matthew could testify. It had been hard.

People asked questions, blunt interrogation, and expected him to have all the answers.

 _Say, Matthew, how did your mom buy such a nice house if she doesn't have a job?_

 _You really don't know who's your dad? 'Cuz I know mine, even if don't live with him._

To be accepted, one should be ready to suffer.

Matthew Williams, from all of his seven years of age, learnt to speak with their accent, learnt to smile and nod even if he didn't understand. He wanted to be part of the group, even if it meant calling soda 'pop'. He wished for friends and happiness and _love_ in that tiny town named Rainbow*.

He learnt to love the ice and the snow that piled up in winter. He understood it was preferable to love it than to hate it. Sometimes, he did grumble when he had to shovel it to clear a path through their garden. Everybody did though, so it was okay. When the vast majority did something, he copied. It was safe to do since everybody did it.

He was a child. It was easier for him.

His mother, he had noticed, was not eager to learn. She wanted to be left alone, in her little house in the middle of nowhere. She disliked the attention they received upon their arrival and afterwards. The small pout that she unwillingly offered to any people who asked question they shouldn't have asked was a distinct sign of her displeasure.

Matthew, being the good little boy he was, did his best to comply with her desire. He never invited friends in his house, even dissuaded them from coming over. He unconsciously wondered if she would notice and pat his head; maybe even kiss him for being good like he had seen other moms doing. How sweet it would have been to be so close to her!

 _No._ He was asking for far too much. Just a slight smile would be perfect. Sunk in his cocoon of blankets on his sagging bed, he tried to imagine that small quirk of her red lips, but his mind did not comply. He couldn't picture it.

He had never seen it.

Matthew put his cold hands on his eyes to block the grey light that passed through his covers. He closed his eyes again and concentrated. Knitting his brows, he tried to envision her lips forming a perfect arc, a discreet dimple appearing on her left cheek and her blue eyes joyfully lighting up.

The only thing he could clearly see in his mind was her pout, -delightful, adored expression-. One he himself seldom saw.

Matthew gave up when darkness completely settled in his cold room.

In the end, his mother never remarked those efforts. She never patted his head, kissed him or smiled. Matthew simply tried harder.

He knew his mother loved him. She made his lunch every day, washed his clothes perfectly and read him story before sleeping. He couldn't have a better one _._

So he did not complain when he threw up for the umpteenth time his lunch, a tasteless, rocky sandwich. His classmates kept glancing at him mirthfully, silently whispering in his back why he couldn't just ask his mother to make his lunch. He had told them he cooked for himself to be more _self-aware_. (He had looked up what it meant in the dictionary before blurting it out.) That complicated word left an odd after-taste in his mouth, something like salt and dirt. His teacher had stopped starring at him so much after.

His clothes were always crumpled and smelled weird and he always smiled, telling any person staring a little too long at them of his imagined adventures outside. His books on nature were of great help to make it seem believable. Sometimes, if the weather permitted it, he would even roll on the hill next to his school to show his adventurous ( _stupid city slicker_ ) nature. His classmates said he was weird, yet followed him on more than one occasion. Their game ended the day Matthew was called to the teachers' room and came back with lines to write during the breaks.

He often kneeled behind her rocking chair at night, hidden in the darkness. He didn't fall asleep easily in his cold and dark room, so he often found himself in that tiny corner. He strained his ears to hear her soft murmurs. It was educational, he mused. Hearing stories from all around the world was quite enlightening. Furthermore, he could practice his French. He just wished she would sometimes take another topic: he had had numerous nightmares about murderers and Death.

But... It was the only times his mother's voice became clearer, lighter as she spoke in her maternal tongue.

As she loved him, it was only natural to love her in return and do his upmost to please her.

Matthew had the best grades in his class. His teachers praised him and sent congratulating messages to his mother quite often. _Matthew is an outstanding student. You can be proud of his continuous efforts._ Once, he almost got selected for a national competition in mathematics. Almost selected, because he mucked up the last exercise. He hadn't dared to ask his mother if he could participate. He wasn't certain his mother would have accepted getting out of the house to bring him at the competition's venue.

Anyway, Matthew preferred the stickers he would receive for being a good boy. He could put them everywhere in his house. They were colorful. He thought that perhaps, they would destroy the gray and let only colors stay in his abode. His mother would notice them, and maybe, just maybe she would smile.

They sadly peeled off and turned colorless.

Matthew, to constantly remind her she had a loving son, made her presents in his free time. He gave her different things he had found beautiful. Shiny rocks, blooming flowers, colourful leaves...

All of them ended in the bin. Matthew smiled, grinned, cried, whimpered and tried harder.

One day, it all stopped. As usual, he came back from school quite early. His classmates called him a mama's boy and jeered when he left the hockey ring. His team hadn't wanted him to quit so early. They were sure to win with him. Without him, not so much. They promised candies, a sleepover and even help for the next homework.

Matthew didn't want sweets or a sleepover and certainly not help from kids who normally asked for his aid for complicated homework.

Seeing his mother was more important. Perhaps, today, she would look at him? Wednesday was a good day. He had a feeling it would be a good day.

Therefore, he skipped and bounced on the snow, his boots making muffled sounds against the iced path, skates tied to his backpack. He opened the front door, hands tingling and stiff. Light briefly invaded the house and illuminated the sparse furniture before he closed the wooden door. Matthew found himself in a familiar twilight as he discreetly made his way through the house.

As usual, his mother did not answer when he rasped his knuckles on her door. She would come out eventually, he thought. Two hours later, she was still buried there.

Matthew had tiptoed several times near her door, never having the courage to open it. He simply breathed there, not loud enough to be heard but still there. He had never been allowed in her bedroom. The young boy had no recollection of such a joyous event. He had glanced at it though, caught glimpse of ice blue walls and a small bed.

He remembered he had thought it was her favorite and making her a card with that colour. It ended in the bin more swiftly than any others he had made over the years.

Matthew's empty stomach grumbled loudly. He stopped breathing at once, fearing and hoping she had heard. The kitchen was a forbidden territory he could only use when she wasn't home. That was never.

His mother had slapped him the last time he had touched the oven in her presence. It was a quite vivid memory. His left cheek still burned when he remembered that sad occurrence. He shouldn't have played with the buttons: it was his fault his mother had been angry.

Thus, Matthew could only wait and hope. As his legs turned numb from all that time standing immobile, he finally awkwardly took a sit on the cold parquet. He waited.

He waited until his eyelids closed on their own accord. He waited until he felt numb and uncomfortable. He waited until darkness was his only companion. The Moon was a poor lamp in that particular hallway for there was only one window. The light made a single square on the floor, not too far away from him.

Matthew avoided looking at it. The young boy avoided thinking about it. It made the hair on his nape stand on its own and goose bumps appear on his arms. The darkness he was hidden in was a good companion. He knew the darker shades and the lighter ones; he understood the strange shadows and quirky shapes. The light distorted everything he comprehended, made every nook and crannies look completely different.

When the white spot was finally near him, he got back to his feet. He slowly and clumsily did, one hand pushing on the wall to support him. He stared intently at a doorknob and at the door attached to it. He wished it would magically open and his mother would smile and say his name with a French lilt.

His hand hovered near the doorknob. His fingertips brushed the cool metal. His fingers slowly grabbed it. It was forbidden, he had no right, filthy hand, filthy fingers- but he wanted to open the door anyway. He wanted-

He turned the doorknob.

She was sleeping. He could vaguely see her, tiny thing in a tiny bed. For the first time in forever, he had entered his mother's room. And she was sleeping. His stifled breath was the only sound he could hear. He was so, so loud. He should have left, his mother was sleeping, she needed her sleep, he disturbed an important matter.

His feet stayed glued to the floor. He looked around, observing with widened eyes the dimly lit sacred room until his head was spinning. Everything was neatly put in order. He had never seen any other room of their house so tidied up before. A weird smell floated in the air, the fragrance of withered flowers. Finally, when his eyes started to sting, when he discerned all the curves and cracks of the white chest put at the foot of her bed, he turned towards her. She was still sleeping soundly. Matthew didn't resist the temptation to approach her bed, just to see her face better.

She looked beautiful. She always had been, but even more so under the dim light of the moon. The ashen light made her look paler than usual, as white as Snow White's skin.

"Mom." Her lips always quirked downwards when he said that word. He whispered it, because his mother was sleeping and today could be the day she would smile at him.

"I love you." He almost desired her awakening then, just so she could wake with those beautiful words.

He brushed his fingertips against her hair. His fingers met tousled, silky locks on her forehead.

Her skin was cold.

 **[911]**

Stains decorated the wall. Those stains weren't blindingly obvious, just big enough to be seen. Most people wouldn't notice those tiny black dots scattered on the wall. Matthew did. He had had several hours to notice them. One of them resembled vaguely his teacher's hairdo.

"Matthew?" A wobbly voice called him softly.

He squinted a bit. Yup. It sure looked like his teacher's hairdo. Was that a spider?

"Matthew Williams." Indeed, it was a big fat spider. It moved swiftly, thin legs moving gracefully across the wall when a shadow covered its previous position.

"Hello, little guy." The shadow belonged to a plump woman. Her only interesting point was her hair. Her ridiculous hairdo would have given his teacher's a run for his money. The rest was blander than flour. Her left hand, which approached his shoulder, was bereft of a wedding ring.

"I'm going to take you to a nice place, ok?" Ah, her voice was a bit interesting too. It was an odd mix between overly sweet and the wheezing of a smoker. Her hand was cold and heavy on his shoulder. Brown, cracked lips blew fetid breaths on his face.

He nodded, his skull pressed against the wall, away from her.

Perhaps her myopic eyes didn't see his gesture; perhaps she wasn't accustomed to nice, obedient child like Matthew. She carried on. "We're going to take a plane to Edmonton. Then, we're going to meet your family. They asked for the corpse." She paused, and what a delight it was to not smell her fishy bad breath. What a delight it was to not hear her drawl on the word corpse anymore. "Do you understand?"

Matthew understood very well. His mother was dead. He had called the police himself, hadn't he? Explained calmly and painstakingly to the officer on the other side that his mother was not breathing, not moving, not doing anything. That she was cold.

It had been the first time he used that peculiar number. He had never thought he would use it for such a situation. The policeman (or policewoman, he wasn't sure) had completely freaked out on his third attempt. The first time, his interlocutor had thought he was merely joking. He had seemed quite amused by the call and finished it quickly, half-heartedly lecturing Matthew. The second time, he had angrily lectured him: Matthew was unable to get a word in edgeways. Finally, the third time had worked _._

His interlocutor had lost it when he gave details of his situation. People had promptly invaded his house afterwards. They had checked his mother's pulse, asked him questions, walked through the property as if they owned the place, made a mess everywhere, and whisked her away in a van. He had followed suit in another van and found himself there, sitting on an uncomfortable chair in a dirty office with an old lady.

"Matthew?"

Matthew blinked, then nodded. He understood perfectly. They (Miss _what's-your-face and Matthew)_ were going to meet the family he had never met before and hopefully they would take him in.

Hopefully.

* * *

*Rainbow Town: Middle of nowhere, Alberta, Canada. There's an airport, some shops, and lot of forests. Basically, the middle of nowhere.

 **911** is, in Canada, the phone number to contact the police, ambulance drivers and firefighters. A pretty neat number to know when you're in a pinch. It's one of the first numbers we learn to dial in Canada.

Hint for the readers: always read carefully the characters' first sentence. It tells a lot about them and their motive.


	2. The Boy who found Neverhome

**I wanna fly**

The plane ride was long and stuffy. It wasn't only Miss Smith's breath that smelled fishy.

The pretty stewardess smiled profusely at him and offered him apple juice. He thanked her and that was the only words he uttered. Miss Smith didn't try to converse, as she was wholly immersed in a magazine.

Matthew was happy she didn't. The clouds they flew over interested him. They made a solid grey blanket he couldn't see through. He knew they were made of vapor, but they looked like a solid, grey ground. The plane could crash against it. He would fall to his death.

Or maybe the snow under would save him.

He closed his eyes, tired of staring. He easily imagined the snow falling and pilling up under the concrete sky. Under them.

He was higher than the clouds.

He was back on earth too soon.

"I wanted my daughter's body, not the fucking kid."

 _His grandfather_ was already there, bent on a desk, when they hastily arrived in that airport's room. Matthew could only see his round back, clad in flannel.

The old man brusquely signed paperwork without giving his grandson a sidelong glance. When finally, he looked up, it was to give the papers to an executive. Then, he made a move to leave the room. Miss Smith blocked the door with her plump body before he could.

Then very, very bad words Matthew hadn't the right to say had left the old man's chapped lips.

"Sir," Miss Smith blocked nimbly Mr. Williams' incensed movements to exit, "you're his only family."

"So?"

Miss Smith smiled mechanically before droning on the administrative procedure. Matthew heard things about support, Crown wards and what not. His eyes were fixed on his grandfather. His scraggly white beard swallowed his cheeks and his weak chin.

His mouth spat words Matthew couldn't misunderstand.

 _I don't want the bastard child._

 _Why should I take care of him? I'm too old._

 _Send him to an orphanage or whatever._

 _I don't have money to raise him. Children cost a lot these days._

 _Send him away from me._

His grandfather's reddened face tensed when he opened his mouth to spew insults. He sponged down his forehead a couple of times with a grey handkerchief as he roared. The executive officer who received the paperwork glanced disapprovingly at the ruckus, before staring back at his knees. He fiddled mutely with his pen.

Miss Smith's smile seemed to be carved in her fat face.

Matthew was in the middle of the adult's group, but he could have been a ghost, given how everybody thought nothing of him.

Finally, his only kin alive shoved aside Miss Smith with a rude nudge and exited the small room.

His grandfather left the room without looking at him even once. That habit had to run in the family.

 **[The one we wanted to live died. What is left… is a bastard no one wants.** **]**

In the end, his grandfather somehow proved he really couldn't take care of a child, especially of Matthew. Even if, according to Miss Smith, he was filthy rich and healthy as a horse. He must have handsomely greased the judge's hands, she grumbled sometimes. The judgement had been too quick, too easy, to be normal.

(Matthew learnt he was the one who paid for the tiny house in the middle of nowhere. For his daughter's health. To hide the bastard. To be a good father.) The boy decided he would never, ever have a beard.

For the case, Matthew thought it fine. He was content. He didn't want to live with the old man. There was no love between them, so why should they force things? Matthew would not have tolerated his booming voice and wild antics. He liked Miss Smith's awkward silence and prattle a lot better.

His grandfather wouldn't have tolerated his existence.

The outcome had been good for the both of them. Had it not? They were free from each other's presence, weren't they? They could happily live the rest o their life without thinking about each other, right?

Right?

Matthew found out the very night after the judge's decision that he was wrong.

Nothing was more terrible than to picture what could have been but would never happen. Matthew had a lot of practice in that domain. He still tried to imagine his mother's smile when sleep eluded him.

He still couldn't do it properly. He could only feel her cold skin and see her condescending pout.

Thus he spent his nights in the dormitory, dreaming of a family that never existed and waiting for a home.

That run down place belonged to an old couple who took problematic children in for a short amount of time. Matthew, a girl who preferred to be mute and a youth who screamed at everyone and smoked joints were roommates and said problematic children.

Matthew didn't like his hosts. The old couple laughed at the youth's "energetic" behavior. Matthew saw the husband smoke a few joints with the youth.

Adults weren't supposed to do bad things, his teacher had once told him. Adults did not care about rules, Matthew had learnt.

The aged pair didn't really talk or interact with Matthew or the girl. Matthew lived in a corner of the building, turning the yellow pages of the available books. The girl –he never learnt her name- spent her time next to him.

He stared at her sometimes. She stared back.

They understood each other, without a word being exchanged.

She had the habit of playing with her cuff when she was deep in thought. She knew, and Matthew would have liked to have the same power, when the teenager would show up. She would disappear somewhere until silence came back.

One day, she left. The couple gave no explanation.

Matthew missed her silence.

He missed her grey, melancholic eyes.

Miss Smith, when she finally visited him after the judgement, saw the shadows under his dropping eyes everybody else overlooked. She took him to McDonalds to cheer him up. He forced the food down his throat so she would smile.

Matthew decided that Miss Smith, even if she smelled bad and smoked too much, had a good heart. She fought for him more than anybody else had. More than his mother had.

The food clogged at the back of throat.

"We found a family for you." She said, her eyes focused on the fries between her index and thumb. She turned it around before globing it up.

"It'll be better than the dorms. I don't even know why they still have the right to-" Miss Smith stopped herself. She took a sip of her pop and cleared her throat.

"Anyway, you'll meet the couple tomorrow. Normally, if every goes well, you'll stay with them for quite a long time."

Miss Smith had explained to him before what awaited him. It was not adoption and he could be moved to another family soon enough, but it was apparently better than the dormitory where he was living. Matthew finished his fries slowly, his throat no longer a vice.

He wouldn't have to smell the heavy scent of joints anymore, then.

"That couple's real nice, you know. They had other kids in their custody and all of them were well treated."

What did 'well treated' mean? Would the husband offer him a smoke? Would the wife cook soggy noodles? Would they talk to him, once in a while?

"They have an older boy with them right now. Hmmm – his name's Abe, I think."

As long as the older boy didn't scream at him, Matthew would be content. Miss Smith continued to talk, telling him how it would better there. He would live on a farm, in the wilderness. He liked the countryside, didn't he? Of course he did. He would be in his element.

Besides, the other boy, whose name she couldn't quite remember, would certainly be as sweet as Matthew. The couple was beyond adorable. She liked that word; everything was 'adorable' for her.

An adorable family. An adorable farm. An adorable boy.

Matthew nodded. He hadn't much of a choice, anyway.

The couple met Matthew the day after. It was a middle aged couple, and as Miss Smith explained to him in hushed tones, they couldn't conceive. So they took care of other people's kids.

They liked Matthew almost immediately. Chloe – _that's how he was supposed to call her_ \- thought him cute. Mister John assented to everything his wife said. Thus, after a few days and boring, tenuous paperwork, Miss Smith took him to their farm.

She blabbered during the whole ride to the Martin's farm. She blew her nose with an old handkerchief and cleared her throat quite a few times during the trip. Matthew gave her tissues from the box on his knees from time to time. When they finally arrived in front of the house, her white knuckles made a stark contrast against the black wheel she held tightly.

She stopped the car. She made no other movement.

Matthew gently put the last tissue he had in the gap between the steering wheel and her trembling hand. He took his bag and opened the door.

The hard snow made a crackling sound when he put his foot on it. "Matthew." He turned back, his second foot already on the cold ground. She stretched her hand out and gave him a slip of paper. Her puffy eyes were still locked on the house. "Call me if you ever need help, OK?"

Matthew knew she shouldn't do that. He took the slip anyway. He shoved it in his pocket. A moment later, her old car left the parking with a cloud of black smoke.

Just in time.

"Matthew!" Chloe stood in the doorstep of the side door, in her slippers on the salted ice. She waved wildly. He walked to her and she engulfed him in a hug. "Welcome to our humble home, buddy!"

She didn't let go of him until they were inside, comfortably sitting next to an antique wood-burner in the living room, a cup of tea in hand. "John couldn't be here to welcome you- you know what it is, working on a farm."

No, Matthew didn't know, but he nodded anyway. She chuckled, before kissing his forehead. One second later she was in the hallway. "Abu! Get down there! Your brother is here!"

Feet pounded down the staircases. A gangly teen appeared on the threshold of the living room. "Do try not to be an elephant when you come down, dear." Chloe said, before turning to Matthew with a smile.

"Matthew, here's Abu, our resident adolescent." She said, smiling broadly.

Matthew knew what she wanted him to do. He got up and offered his best smile. It hurt his cheeks.

Chloe ruffled his hair. She stared pointedly at her older boy. He immediately muttered a greeting and bobbed his head in Matthew's direction.

Abu's frizzy dark hair stuck in every direction after Chloe ruffled it. He took a step back to escape her hands, grumbling under his breath. His brown eyes briefly ogled at the younger boy before he turned to Chloe.

"Chloe, what's for dinna?" He said.

She nudged him gently. "Everything you hate; lots and lots of veggies."

"Hamburgers, then." He said, eyes twinkling. Matthew thought the sight beautiful.

"Indeed! How did you know?" She smiled sweetly at her older boy.

"I can smell your hamburgers a mile away." He grinned.

Chloe laughed, before a strident alarm rang. "The buns!" She exclaimed.

The thin woman walked quickly to the kitchen door, but stopped on her track before she was out. "I'll let you boys get to know each other. Dinner will be ready in a few-." Another alarm rang. The rest of her sentence was lost as she flew to the kitchen.

The wood cracked. Sparks fluttered around before dying in the burner.

"Hey, you." His _brother's_ broad smile had disappeared. The teen leaned against the threshold, tanned arms crossed on his chest. "If you call me Abu, I'll break your legs. My name's Adelio."

Matthew waited for Adelio to crack a joke or just smile. That was clearly a joke, right?

The teen stretched out nonchalantly, before approaching the couch where Matthew sat with long strides. "By the way... I'm not your fucking brother." Adelio was so close Matthew could smell the earthy smell of his shirt. "Understood?"

Matthew nodded.

"Good." Adelio patted his cheek and rough met delicate in a gentle movement. It could have been a caress. It wasn't.

The rugged teen retreated a few steps and calmly left the living room. The wood, devoured by the fire, cracked in the silent room. The lukewarm tea inside Matthew's cup tasted bitter.

His eyes stung. The paper slip in his pocket burned his side.

When, finally, he got up and step after step, made his way to the kitchen, Adelio was setting the table. He put down each utensil with precision, in an unhurried manner. On the other hand, Chloe was a hurricane, twisting and whirling everywhere around her kitchen.

Adelio took a step back every time Chloe approached him, just to make sure he wasn't in the way. When he was done setting the table, he sat down. He observed briefly Matthew who still stood alone, in his corner, before he engrossed himself with his glass of water.

"Matthew, come here." She relieved him of his cup. He chose the seat next to Chloe. It would be safe there.

As he pulled the chair, Chloe called him. "That's John's seat, darling. Come sit next to Abu."

They had chosen seat? Matthew pursed his lips. What was different between that one and the other one? And why couldn't John sit next to Adelio? Why couldn't he sit next to Chloe?

The middle-aged woman pushed him to the other side of the table gently. From the corner of his eye, he saw Adelio's quirked lips as he tilted his glass. Matthew sat down. Chloe put down the dishes.

A door was slammed on the other side of house. A second later, John entered the kitchen, some snowflakes still stuck at the end of his sparse, gray hair.

The middle-aged man, who looked older than he really was with all the wrinkles he had around his eyes, smiled kindly at his two wards before sitting down. Chloe sat down too.

Everybody took whatever he or she wanted to make their hamburger. Matthew copied the family. "Abu, could you help me with the truck after dinner? McMillan is sure it's done for, but I disagree." John plastered his buns with ketchup, before munching on his hamburger. Matthew imitated.

Chloe nudged her husband. "That thing is so old. I don't even know why you don't just buy a new one."

The master of the house gulped a mouthful. "Because it worked just fine until McMillan decided it was a good idea to open the engine."

Matthew didn't understand how John could eat so much ketchup. It was nauseating. He ate his hamburger anyway, albeit in small bites.

"That thing asphyxiates everybody with its black smoke." Chloe commented.

"If we have to buy a new one, we will buy a new one. I just think McMillan is blowing it out. Abu and I are going to work on it tonight." John said while he poured everybody water. Matthew thanked him quietly.

Adelio finished his second serving. "Sure."

Matthew finished his first hamburger, fragmenting the last bits of buns into smaller morsel to make them last longer after he finished the meat. He wouldn't take a second serving. Adelio and John were wolfing the remaining ones. Besides, he wasn't hungry.

The hamburgers were delicious though, even if he had ruined one with ketchup. The buns' exterior was crispy while the inside was squishy. The meat tasted like nothing he ever had before. It was even better than the McDonalds' he had with Miss Smith.

Chloe smiled sweetly at him. "Good, isn't it?"

Matthew half-opened his mouth, a yes lodged somewhere in his mouth. "They're the best!" Adelio exclaimed. John grunted his agreement as he munched on his fourth hamburger. Chloe served the very last one to Adelio with a smile. "If they're so good, you better finish it all."

Adelio, Matthew had noticed, smiled a lot at their hostess, got up every time she needed sometimes or made a movement to get up, and joked with their host. John grumbled about this and that softly, but rarely interjected in the conversation.

Chloe asked Matthew questions and Adelio answered.

"Do you like to read?"

"Ye-"

"We should totally repaint the old barn." Adelio interjected.

"It's true the paint is a bit old." The farmer mused. "But I think it can wait a year or two."

Chloe hummed in agreement. She turned toward her youngest –and cutest- ward. "We're going to show you the whole farm tomorrow. I hope you like to work!"

"Abukcheech here will help ya." John reassured Matthew.

"My name's Adelio." The teen grumbled under his breath.

Chloe laughed, high and loud, before she patted his hand. "Sure it is, Abu!"

"Abukcheech means mouse in Algonquin." John said helpfully to Matthew, as if it explained everything.

"Since he is such a big, mature boy, he doesn't like that name much." Chloe added as she put down an apple pie. "We just call him Abu for short. You can use his nickname too, Matthew. He doesn't like it, but he really is our frizzy, big mouse."

The glare Adelio sent his way told him how much he would suffer if he did.

John wolfed down a slice an instant after it arrived on his plate.

"Thanks for the dinner." John muttered. One second later, the middle-aged man was up. He murmured something to his wife, nodded at his wards and left. He muttered things about work and old truck on his way out. Adelio gulped down his slice with a glass of water and followed suit.

"Do you want some?" She asked, staring pointedly at her homemade pie. It smelled good. Matthew liked apples very much.

But Chloe hadn't taken a slice. "No, thank you very much." Matthew said.

She nodded and put it back in the fridge. After, she cleaned the table and Matthew immediately offered his help. She accepted with a delighted smile, telling where this and that went.

Soon, they had finished. Chloe then dragged him through the whole house. They stored John's tools and 'junks' in a part of the basement: he promised to not play there. The other part of the basement was filled by an enormous freezer, an old kitchenette they never used and different machines such as a washer, a dryer and the heating system. Spiders were the persistent tenants of the cellar Chloe couldn't quite get rid of.

The first floor comprised the living room, the kitchen –Chloe's kingdom, so to speak –, a small bathroom with a shower, a guest room and the garage where a four by four rested. His hostess called it 'our red beast'.

Narrow stairs led to the second floor. Another, bigger washroom awaited them, and four bedrooms. The most interesting thing on that floor was the wall bookcase. It was a perfect blend of chaos and balance. The books looked like they would tumble down at any moment, yet they didn't. Matthew saw titles and coverts he had never seen before. He wanted to pounce on them.

There was problem though: how was he going to take one book without all of them falling down?

Chloe slowed down an instant, silently happy someone finally understand the wonder of reading. How many times her husband and Abu had grunted answers and absently listened when she talked about her favorite books...

Finally, they saw the bedrooms.

One, which was marked by a blue door, belonged to the couple. One belonged to Adelio. The two other were free.

Yet, Chloe led her young ward to Adelio's room. "I'm sorry, but you will have to sleep with Abu tonight." She opened the wooden door and a weird stench immediately assaulted their nose.

Messy would be a good way to describe the state of the room. Clothes had been scattered across the room. Matthew had never seen so many clothes. He never had so many either. Did all of it really belong to Adelio?

The weird stench, he noticed, emanated from several heaps of...food? On one side, buried under tons of papers and other objects, a desk or something which looked like a desk stood. On the other side, a wooden bunk bed, also covered by clothes, took the entire wall.

"I told him to tidy up his room." Chloe muttered as she entered the toxic territory. She went directly to the window with quick steps and opened it.

Cold air entered the room. "Well, let's tidy up all this."

Matthew wondered why he couldn't just sleep in the guest room or one of the unused bedrooms on that floor. Why did he have to sleep with Adelio? He didn't want to. Adelio didn't want him there either.

But Chloe had already squatted down and gathered dirty clothes in her arms. So he did the same. They tossed the dirty and clean mix into a round hole hidden in the bathroom's closet. Apparently, it would fall directly next to the washer. It was nice. He wouldn't strain his back carrying all his stuff downstairs. Well, he didn't have much, but he suspected he would tidy Adelio's mess again.

After all, Chloe could have just called his roommate to tidy all of this, but she didn't. They did it for him instead.

Next, they swept the parquet until no weird scraps was left on it. They could move freely across the room now. Chloe eyed the desk, massaging her back absently.

"We will not remove this heap of rubbish today. We just might chuck an important paper hidden in this..." She trailed off, before sighing. "Sorry about all this, darling."

"It's no problem, Ma'am." Matthew muttered. The cold breeze that flew through the bedroom chilled him.

"Call me Chloe, dear." She patted his cheek, just like Adelio had done. His head jerked away from her cold touch as her hand left his face. She didn't notice, too preoccupied with the mess remaining. Her hands were itching to finish the job they had started.

Finally, she left his side to search for clean bed linen and his bag. "You will sleep on the top bed. Abu prefers the lower shelf." She said as she re-entered the room, hands full with covers and his only possession beside what he was wearing.

Chloe gave him his black bag, a tiny thing that contained everything he had. That is, a few clothes and two books. He stood in the middle of the room, bag dangling in his hands as she made his bed.

She cheeked her watch. "Oh my, it's getting late. Thank you for your help, Matthew. You should sleep now."

With a kiss to his forehead, she left him alone in his cold room. Well, it was not really his. It belonged to Adelio.

The young boy closed the window.

He went out and with slow steps he approached the two unoccupied rooms. The first one looked like Adelio's, without the junks scattered everywhere. It looked pretty clean and ready to be used. The beds were made.

The second one was perhaps a tiny bit dusty. Matthew would have still very much liked to sleep there.

However, his hosts wanted him to sleep in Adelio's bedroom. So Matthew would. Even if it didn't make sense. He hadn't much of a choice, anyway. They could kick him out if he made too much trouble.

He quietly closed the doors to those bedrooms. He went to the bathroom, changed and brushed his teeth. When he got out, the lights had been turned off in the hallway. Soft music came from downstairs. He sat on the stairs and listened, head against his knees.

He listened to English lyrics, but he could only hear an adored French accent spoke of murders and terrible things in his ears. When John's voice rang under him, Matthew remembered he should have been in bed since... a long time ago. He almost fell down when he tried to get up. His legs were numb.

He waited a bit in the darkness, massaging his legs until he could feel his feet again. Then, he ran to his bed. It was cold.

Thus his first day with his new family ended. At least, the walls of his temporary bedroom were not blue. Everything but blue would have been fine, really. The dark red painted on the walls was really a pretty colour though, Matthew mused.

Time passed. Adelio went to bed a long time after him and bumped into everything in the dark before he arrived to the bunk bed. He stood silently there, near Matthew's head. The child closed his eyes.

In the darkness, the older boy striped, the bed cracked and he started to snore soon after.

Matthew didn't sleep. He thought of his old dreams of a normal family. How perfect, he had thought a long time ago, to have his mother kiss him on the forehead or ruffle his hair. How nice it would be to have siblings. How wonderful it would be to eat with his mother and talk and – do the stuff normal people did.

He wanted to laugh (weep). A "normal family" sucked as much as his did.

Matthew didn't want Chloe's hamburgers or her hand ruffling his hair or her kiss. He didn't want a bunk bed that smelled like detergent. He didn't want a grandfather who did not care. He didn't want a brother or whatever the hell Adelio was supposed to be. How did you call someone who threatened you but was supposed to be family? Matthew didn't know, but it couldn't possibly be 'brother'.

Matthew wanted his crumpled bed sheets and his sagging bed. He wanted to be in the small house in the middle of nowhere, not in the Martin's farm.

He wanted to see his mother's pout. Not one he imagined, but the real one.

He wanted to hear her speak French.

Matthew bit his covert and cried.

Brown eyes stared unblinkingly at the wooden bed slats above his head.

They closed when Matthew's whimpering stopped.


	3. Neverhome

**I wanna fly**

Matthew woke up with the soft creaks the stairway made as John slowly went down. Step number four made more noise than usual. His eyes fluttered open, before he closed them. Darkness still inhabited Adelio's room.

Water ran through the pipes in the wall near his head. Chloe was taking a shower.

He listened as Adelio inhaled deeply before getting up. Their bunk bed creaked loudly and Adelio grumbled something under his breath. He fiddled with his clothes in the darkness, bumping into everything in his way out, as usual.

The water no longer rumbled in the pipes. Adelio left their shared room. He closed the door softly, surely to not wake up his very much awake younger roommate.

Matthew counted ten of his breath before he opened his eyes and threw his too warm cover away.

He had fifteen minutes of solitude before Chloe would call him for breaky. Fifteen minutes where he wouldn't have to listen to John's grumbles, Chloe's chatter and Adelio's jokes.

He left his bed deftly, feet walking on the cold floor padded by Adelio's never ending flood of clothes. He found his clothes where he had left them, on the only clean corner of the room. His corner, Chloe had joked. Perhaps it was, but the things that filled it certainly didn't belong to him. Shapeless clothes a size too big for his thin body, an old schoolbag, shoes a tad too small - but he would bear with them until he couldn't put them on anymore: he wasn't the one who paid for them -and worn books. Things that other children had worn and used before him. Adelio, John, Peter, Frank, Julia, and now him.

They didn't feel quite right on his skin.

He left the bedroom as Chloe put her foot on the first step of the stairway, ready to noisily wake him up. He had suffered such awakening only once and he didn't particularly wish to repeat the experience. It reminded him of the angry teen who enjoyed joints too much.

She smiled tiredly at him. "Today's cereals or yogurt, Matthew."

He opted for the yogurt with some fruits. He wasn't hungry. Adelio, as usual, was wolfing down cereals and yogurt, head hunched over his plate. John had already eaten and nodded wordlessly at his co-workers before he left the kitchen.

Chloe nibbled at her half-bowl of dry cereals and sipped her tea.

Matthew wondered if he had to help John out today too. Today was special. Today, he would go to school again. Chloe had announced it two days before as he was about to go upstairs. It had surprised him. He had forgotten school existed.

Work had been everything he had known at the Martin's.

He had been so busy during his first week. So much to do, so much to learn. Each night, he wouldn't even think about sitting on the steps of the stairway to listen to Chloe's music. His bed beckoned him and Matthew hadn't the strength to refuse its call. He wouldn't even wake up when Adelio would enter their shared bedroom and noisily make his way to their bed.

He wouldn't have been so tired by it all if Adelio had helped him a bit in his chores. John showed or explained what Matthew had to do. Adelio would watch, arms crossed, smile at John, and then promptly forgot he was supposed to help Matthew.

It was fine. Matthew could manage without his help. John explained well enough, and if Matthew did something badly, his host simply explicated again. Matthew tried his hardest to memorize everything right away. John seemed like a patient man, but his eyes, when he looked at Matthew's poor work, told a different story.

Then, after helping John with this and that, head buzzing with all he had learnt, he had to help Chloe. She didn't ask for help, but it was the sensible thing to do. Adelio almost flew to her side when his job with John was done.

"Dear, is your bag ready?" Chloe asked after she daintily finished her breakfast.

"Yes." Matthew said. He got up with his bowl in one hand, her bowl in the other and put them in the dishwasher.

"Do try to leave early. Your teacher will wait for you at the entrance to give you a tour before you enter your class." She patted his hand before she went back to sipping her tea.

Matthew nodded mutely, lips pursed. He would have liked to be accompanied. Chloe and John were busy. John already gave a ride to Adelio who had to go to the only junior school of the county.

He put on his "winter armor" as they called it there. Another thing the Martin lent him.

Matthew took his bag and his lunch and bade Chloe goodbye. She said something that vaguely sounded like a parting word. He left the house. The cold wind hit his face constantly, but the boy was still glad. Snow had became rain, ice had transformed into brown slush. St Paddy's Day had passed by and Easter approached quickly enough: soon, spring would be there. He wanted to see the farm in summer.

Chloe and John talked a great deal of the beautiful season. Chloe talked about the wonderful scenery around there. John spoke of all the work that would fall upon their shoulders.

When he arrived on the road, muddy snow had completely covered his boots. He walked in the middle of the road until he could see a small town. It was formed of a few houses, all so far apart Matthew hadn't believed Chloe the first time she told him it really was a town. The owners perhaps wanted not to see or hear their neighbors too much.

The biggest building, next to the old church, was his new school. New, of course, was a figure of speech. There was nothing new in the run down building.

Matthew waited on the threshold, as Chloe had instructed him to. Students streamed by him in small groups. They stared at him curiously, but none really stopped or talked with him beside for short greetings. They all stepped into the maw of the monster that would keep them captive until the sun would start its dive.

He rocked on his feet, trying to not get too cold. His toes were stiff in his boots. Chloe had said a teacher would show him around. It was better to wait than to miss one another. Besides, even if he was sure he could find his class on his own, given his school's smallness, he preferred to be polite and wait. The teacher would show up eventually.

Finally, his teacher appeared. Without a word of apology for his lateness, he dragged Matthew inside.

The tour was as short as it was uninteresting. The teacher showed him where the washrooms were, the gymnasium, the classes he would use, the places where he could eat and the schoolyard. His new school looked like a bigger replica with fewer students of his old one. Even the chipped pastels paint looked the same. The musty smell he had forgotten during his time away from school brought back memories of better times.

"So…" his teacher trailed off when they finally arrived in their classroom, painted in blue, after Matthew took off his winter clothes, "you live with the Martin?"

Matthew nodded. He was pleased with his seat. He was at the back, next to a bookcase full of what seemed to be interesting books. The entrance was near his seat. He could escape before everybody else.

"How is Adelio?" His teacher leant on his desk at that moment, a paternalistic smile plastered on his face. "Still a troublemaker?"

Matthew stilled one beat before his hands continued to work on his bag's zipper. He hesitated, head down. What could he say, truthfully? Nothing. Adelio and he lived in completely different world. They ate and slept together, but Matthew knew nothing of Adelio. After his violent first promise, they never went past pleasantries. He didn't even know if his real name was Adelio or Abukcheech. He didn't know how old he truly was.

He didn't know why he lived with the Martin.

One of his new classmates called their teacher and Matthew was thus freed from his dilemma.

His classmates chose that moment to swarm in and to attack Matthew when they saw him. Kids asked the same questions all at the same time.

"Who're you?" A girl asked shrilly, after she had settled right in front of his desk.

"Where do you come from?" A boy demanded.

"Emile, I'm sure he's Canadian." The first girl claimed with her high-pitched voice.

"He could be a frog*!" Emile said, before he turned expectantly at Matthew.

"That's still Canadian, idiot." She bumped her fist against his shoulder.

"Did your family move around here?" Other kids approached his desk and asked.

"Did the McPat' sell their house?" A girl asked from her side of the classroom.

"Nope, it's still hanging." Someone answered.

"So where do you live then?" Another boy asked.

"Maybe he lives in Clyde Forks." Someone piped up.

"No way! It's way too far. There's a school there too!"

Matthew, between their questions and banter, informed his classmates. His name was Matthew. Yeah, he was Canadian. He was half-frog. He lived near.

They happily recited the only French words and simple sentences they knew when they heard he was a frog. _Bonjour, oui, non, poutine, adieu, merci, enchanté._ Their accent wasn't quite right and they bursted out at themselves most of the time. Matthew stood in the middle of them, overwhelmed.

He had forgotten what a laugh sounded like. Chloe's were too high-pitched and forced to be real.

Eyes twinkling, they asked him to say something in French.

He complied; his mouth had opened and words of greeting had been on the tip of his tongue when the ring rang.

Three notes later, students scrambled to get to their desk.

Then... he wished he hadn't come back to school.

Hell materialized itself in that tiny classroom in the middle of nowhere. As many painful experiences, it started out normal then took a turn for the worst. The teacher, Mister something –he hadn't introduced himself to Matthew –, with a solemn tone, explained in detail why Matthew arrived so late in the school year. How his dear students needed to be kind with him. Why he was so, so special.

After all, he had just lost his mother. Worst of all, he didn't have a father.

Poor little orphan.

Matthew listened, but his mind was a thousand miles away. Words entered in his ears, but he couldn't string them together to make sense of them. He didn't understand what was happening. He could only think of cold skin and blue walls.

The teacher continued, imperturbable under his students' uneasy stare. Matthew lived with the Martin for now. Everybody knew the Martin, right? Mrs. Chloe had been so nice last year; she had baked sweets for the whole school!

And so he spoke, and so he spoke, the only adult in the room.

Matthew shrank into his seat. The blue walls ate away at him. Eyes bore into him. Most of his classmates glanced at him. Some of them turned their head, some hunched their shoulders, and some stared intently at their knees. All of them were silent.

His teacher finished his tirade with another paternalistic smile. "Please, take good care of him. He might not stay with us until the end of the year, but you can still be friend with him."

Matthew's fingers dug into his legs. That sentence had pushed him out of the blue bedroom where a corpse resided. Did that man insinuate the Martin would send him away?

His fingernails dug deeper. That man knew nothing of him. Nothing! He knew nothing of his effort to learn, to work, to be useful so they would keep him. He knew nothing of his nightmares. He knew nothing of the Martin's expectations, of Adelio's half-hidden smirk, of his mother's death.

Matthew wanted to leap on his desk and scream, yell, screech until his lungs could no longer provide him oxygen. He wanted to hit that face until that friendly smile disappeared.

He wanted to cry.

Matthew did no such thing. A stone statue had taken his place in that classroom.

 **[Kindness can be evil.]**

School, honestly, was fine. It was. Really. It was fine. Matthew felt fine. Absolutly.

His fingers didn't dig into his flesh every time someone stared at him for too long. He knew what they thought. Poor little _orphan_. They couldn't see Matthew; only the fact that he was a pitiful boy registered, it seemed.

Matthew didn't think himself pitiful, thank you very much.

Matthew noted in his spare time the different groups in his class. They all invited him to play and stay in their group, because obviously, theirs was the best. They were willing to befriend him, even if, in their minds, he was going to leave soon. The biggest group, made up of the popular kids –if they could be called that-, did not appeal to him. The leader, a loud boy whose family had a farm animal, had said Matthew had it good. A grain farm couldn't be that much work, especially in winter, he had exclaimed.

Matthew's aching muscles screamed otherwise.

Since his little speech, the teacher had been... awfully nice. He treated Matthew well, often went to him and asked if everything was alright, if he needed help or advices. He didn't give too much work.

In the end, he didn't have to befriend a group. He was ostracized before he could.

One day, a youth around Adelio's age came to the primary school as the last bell rang. He was nonchalantly waiting in the cold, leaning against the door. He observed each and every kid who went out. Most children quickly passed next to him without stopping. When their eyes did meet, the younger boys and girls would go silent, hunch their shoulders and walk just a tiny bit faster.

Matthew's teacher approached him. "How do you do, Rich?" The adult slapped the teen's shoulders happily.

"Just fine. You?" The teen answered mechanically, uninterested.

"I'm good. The kids are nice this year." The adult did not notice the teen's bored face and continued to talk about himself and his class of darling ticks.

The teen hummed and nodded when he had to. He still looked intently at each and every child who flew through the front door. Finally, a group of kids who walked slowly drew his attention. They didn't look at him when they passed by him, too occupied by their lively conversation. A small kid with sun-kissed hair stuck out like a sore thumb with his too big clothes in the middle of a pack of insignificant looking children. He looked like a leaf, ready to dance away at any second with a gentle gust of wind.

He looked like a prey.

"Hey, Phil, is that the kid who lives with the Martin?" He pointed Matthew with a small movement of his chin.

Phil stopped his mindless chatter. He squinted. "Yeah, that's the poor boy. Matthew Williams, a kind kid, but a tad too quiet." He would have gone on and on if the teen hadn't cut him off.

"Are the Martin going to keep him?" The pack of children slowly split up on the road. One kid, then another left, until only the prey remained on the asphalt.

"Oh, you know, with Chloe and John, nothing is ever sure. The only kid they ever kept more than six months is that Disney's monkey*."

"Adelio." Rich stated flatly. "I know."

Phil, perhaps for the first time since the beginning of their conversation, used his social skills and sensed he had said something wrong. He quickly decided to change the subject. He pleasantly prattled about this and that, smiling down as the last students left the school. The teenager hummed and made noncommittal noises when they were needed. He eyed the lone, distant figure of Matthew up one last time before he left the gates. He vaguely waved at Phil and disappeared inside a car.

The next day, Matthew's classmates and "friends" gave him an enormous personal bubble.

From the talks he heard from his chosen toilet seat –he sat upon it with a good book during breaks, when he was tired of walking aimlessly outside-, Adelio had not exactly been an exemplary student there. That, Matthew knew already. His teacher had asked if he still was a troublemaker, hadn't he? Moreover, his class had told him in hushed whispers that Adelio was a 'bad' guy. Not the kind of guy you want to spend time with.

It was worst than Matthew had thought possible, though. His book almost fell from his hands when he heard the truth. Adelio, it seemed, had beaten some guys real good. John and Chloe had made him sleep with a violent guy who beat kids. Wonderful.

Chloe could have been oblivious though, he mused. She didn't see Adelio's flaws, only his broad smile and helpful facade. John, Matthew realized after a short period, did not care. As long as his wife was happy, he would be likewise. Besides, Adelio helped a lot around the farm.

The loud voices of the boys taught him why nobody dared to stare at him in the eye. The guys Adelio had beaten were not saints either, apparently. And they, for some reason, had a bit of a grief with Adelio after he put them down. They thought Matthew was a friend of Adelio, so they wrote his name in their tiny blacklist.

His head hit softly the plastic wall of his toilet. All his effort to blend in had been mucked up by, first, his teacher, then by his so-called brother's past action. And some weird guys wanted him dead. Thanks a lot, Abukcheech. Or Adelio. Or whatever was his real name.

His classmates knew better than to seriously befriend a guy that could move out of town soon enough. He was, after all, in a host family. That, Matthew could have resolved with time: his presence for the years to come would have proven their teacher wrong better than anything else. His classmates, however, hadn't exactly been opposed to interacting with him during the little time Matthew was supposed to be in their school.

Matthew hadn't been opposed to it either. The quality of his conversations at the Martin's left a lot to be desired. Chloe talked about things that interested her. As much as he loved to read, he didn't like hearing about a mushy romance novel in which the silent and egocentric female lead mysteriously fell in love with a stalker vampire. John grumbled and grunted. Matthew did not appreciate talking with someone who acted like a stone wall most of the time. Adelio and he did not talk at all, period.

And now, those precious conversations would never take place again.

His eyes burned. He clenched his hands around his book.

Matthew went to class as usual after break. He answered when his teacher asked him questions.

He was the first out. He walked on the dirty road, his heavy and too big boots stamped on the brown strands of grass that peeked out there and here. His bag weighted a ton.

Too soon, Matthew was back inside the Martin's house. He didn't want to be there. John and Chloe would spot him soon enough and ask -demand, they never asked. Chloe ordered, in her sweet, gentle voice, and he had to bow down- for his help. He neatly put his boots away in the entrance, behind big, worn leather boots. His smaller boots were out of view. He slowly walked to Adelio's room, attentive to all the old house's creaks and hiss. Chloe and John would not look for him there first.

Matthew would have fifteen minutes of peace.

He pushed open Adelio's door.

And he found himself staring at Adelio's back.

The teen was changing, wildly discarding his clothes everywhere. Matthew's bed wasn't spared by the storm; it received Adelio's black T-shirt.

Matthew inhaled sharply. Silver, faded lines littered brown skin. They moved sinuously and tensed with Adelio's every move. They looked ready to free themselves from his back and suffocate Matthew in a deadly embrace.

Brown eyes stared him down. The fixed blank face Adelio's sported frightened Matthew. The scars on his back terrified him. "What are you staring at?" Adelio asked quietly.

Matthew wished his legs would take a few steps back. He wished his hand would close the door. He wished he could close his eyes. He never did what he wanted to. "Who hurt you?"

Adelio propelled him out of their bedroom. Matthew fell down with a cry. Adelio loomed over the younger boy at the threshold. Brown and violet clashed. Matthew looked down. Adelio slammed the door shut.

Matthew's question stayed unanswered.

Matthew yielded to whatever Chloe and John wanted without a thought that evening. And the one after and after. They were the only human beings who gave him more than a passing glance now.

School had become a cemetery. People talked to their dead loved ones and walked by a tiny tombstone with the name Matthew carved on it without realizing it stood there. His teacher was the guardian and the gardener. He talked at tombstones to pass the time. He recreated their lives to his liking for he knew nothing of the dead ones.

As for Adelio… If the teen had tolerated Matthew before, then now the boy seemed to not exist in his mind. They still shared a room. They saw each other every day. And they lived in different world.

Insomnia and nightmares became Matthew's constant night companion.

He dreamt of snakes, of scars that never healed, of blue walls.

Spring came and went. The workload grew heavier, but Matthew didn't mind. He hadn't to think so much when he worked.

The end of the school year approached rapidly.

One warm day, Phil asked him something peculiar. "Matthew, my boy, could you help me after school? I need to move some stuff and a helping hand would be wonderful."

Matthew nodded mutely and stayed behind when everybody left. It couldn't be harder than helping out at the farm. Chloe would be happy; she thought he had difficulty fitting in. He did, but not for the reasons she thought of in her spare time.

"We just need to move some stuff in the gym and you'll be free-"

Phil's phone's ringtone cut him off. Hastily, he answered. "Darling?" He stared at his student meaningfully, gestured at his phone then waved at the gym's direction. "Yes sweetie, I'll be there soon. I told you, I'm working."

Matthew made his way through the second floor. His teacher's echoed through the corridor. "Yes, I promise, I'll there on time. Sweetie, you know I'm not supposed to answer your calls when I'm at school."

Matthew walked faster. He didn't want to know if Phil had a wife or a daughter or whatever. He didn't want to know anything about that man.

"Are you Adelio's brother?" Matthew jumped and almost lost his footing in the stairs. He gripped the banister like never before. When he was not in immediate danger of toppling over, he let go of the handrail and turned around.

A teen, around Adelio's age, stood at the top of the stair, staring at him. Matthew had never seen him before. His jet black hair had a bloody shine as the sunset's light lit the school up.

"Excuse me?" Matthew asked. He wasn't sure he had heard the teen right.

The teen slightly tilted his head, before smiling. "No."

A hard shoe kicked him right in the chest. Matthew fell. And forgot to breathe.

He tumbled down a flight of stairs.

His head hurt. He opened his eyes. Bloody dark hair approached him.

Hands picked him up. The world spun. Matthew whimpered. They shoved him down again.

He fell down another flight of stairs.

A lone crimson tear ran into his semi-closed mouth. It tasted like dirt.

A kick to his guts left him breathless. A kick to his head cut off his scream.

"You think he is out?"

A foot nudged his head. Matthew flinched. His shoulders were on fire. Everything was on fire.

"Nha."

"Don't ya think Phil will be angry…"

The same laconic answer. "Nha." A sigh. "I thought it would be more interesting."

A hand tugged his hair and fingers scraped his scalp. "Tell Adelio payback's coming."

The hand let go. His head fell on the floor.

Darkness knocked him out.

The school's janitor who found him unconscious had patched him up quickly. Matthew had woken up on the floor, unknown hands dressing his throbbing head. He hadn't been able to breathe. Air entered in his dry mouth. A vice gripped his throat. He choked, again and again. He could only see the pastels walls through his tears.

His heart pounded in his head.

The janitor fuzzed over him during what seemed to be hours. He didn't know what to do and he looked as scared as Matthew felt.

Matthew thought he was going to die. He would die in a school he detested, on plastic tiles. He would die and be cold.

Then he started to breathe again.

The janitor, after asking Matthew constantly if he was okay, called his hosts. They arrived quickly after.

His teacher appeared out of nowhere when Chloe rushed to Matthew's side. He looked as frantic as Chloe. Apparently, he had gone to the gymnasium and upon not finding Matthew there, he ran heroically through the whole school. He did not mention his phone call or the fact that the school was tiny and running through it couldn't take more than two minutes. Matthew had been on the ground for more than two minutes.

The matter quickly hushed up after his arrival anyway. He explained how Matthew had looked a lot paler than usual today. "The poor kid must be sick and fell down because of it." That, of course, explained his bruised ribcage, his black and blue legs, his black eye and his split lips.

Adults ought to have done some hardcore falling in their youth to say and believe such things.

The janitor had looked as convinced by it as Matthew. He knew. The way he did everything he could to not stare at Matthew in the eye gave him away. He still kept quiet.

John and Chloe swallowed the lie. They thanked profusely his generous teacher and the janitor.

Matthew said nothing. He knew who they would believe if he raised his voice.

That night, Chloe fussed over him and berated him. John grumbled under his breath. Adelio stayed silent, hunched over his plate. They didn't talk. Adelio, Matthew thought, hadn't to be told. An unequivocal message was etched on his face.

That night, his body screamed when he climbed the bunk bed. Chloe had given him an ointment for his bruise. He had spread it gently on his contusions, except the ones he couldn't reach on his back. They still hurt.

He dreamt that night.

His grandfather grinned at him, his yellow teeth as sharp as a shark's. He had a black beard now.

A beating heart spurted blood on the blue floor. One beat at a time, crimson blood gushed out and sullied everything. Slowly, the puddle spread until his toes came in contact with the warm liquid. Matthew looked down.

There was a hole in his chest.

A hole. His chest. A heart on the floor. His heart.

Blood continued to flow from his heart. It disappeared under the sea it had formed. His grandfather snapped his jaw at him. His crooked teeth became fangs with black venom dripping from it. Black and red mixed together.

The crimson liquid engulfed everything and burned Matthew.

Matthew woke up with the soft creaks the stairway made as John slowly went down.

He went to school on foot, as usual. He hobbled his way through the muddy road. He diligently listened to his teacher, as usual. His classmates didn't talk much to him, as usual.

His day was excruciatingly long and horribly short, as usual.

His teacher observed him all day. His classmates whispered about his bruises and wondered how many days he was going to endure before he would leave. He couldn't immerse himself properly in his books. The exercises he normally did easily took him a great deal of effort. His vision blurred several times.

The last bell was liberation and a call to order. He left the classroom slowly and froze at the top of the stairs. He couldn't do it. He couldn't. He could crawl his way up, but for the life of him, he couldn't go downstairs.

Phil, always generous, offered his help. Matthew refused. He would have spat on his teacher's smile, if he had been free to. He went down slowly.

He remembered Adelio's arms. Tiny, silver blotches decorated his rough skin.

He wondered how much time it would take before his arms looked like Adelio's.

He thought about Miss Smith's slip of paper. Chloe entered their room when she wished to and she cleaned and put anything she thought was rubbish in the trash. He had deemed unsafe to keep it where she could and would find it.

He had etched her number in his mind. Then, he had taken matches John had carelessly left near the wood burner. He had walked until he was deep into the wood that surrounded the Martin's property. A pack of wolves inhabited it, some of his classmates said. Matthew burned the slip there. He hid the ashes by turning the snow over before he continued his stroll in the damp snow. The used match, he kept safely in his pocket until he had been able to throw it in the burner when no one was looking.

Matthew feared more what could happen to Miss Smith than wolves he had never seen.

If Chloe had found it, she would have sat him on the living's room couch and innocently talked with him until she had learnt the truth. One way or another, she would have discovered it. Matthew knew he wasn't a good liar. Chloe was a good detective when she wanted to be.

The number written on that tiny slip, he hadn't forgotten. He hadn't forgotten Miss Smith's cursive writing either. He found it oddly lovely. He hadn't thought she had such a beautiful calligraphy.

Her simple words, however, had clutched his heart.

 _Good luck_

Miss Smith, he mused sometimes when sleep still eluded him, knew what awaited him.

He was out of a prison and he was walking to a more permanent jail. Spring had given beautiful colours to everything he could see on his way. Chloe had been right. The place they lived in was nice. Matthew would have preferred an uglier place with less heartless people. He could have properly admired the sunset then.

He fell; his lame leg had bumped into something. His arms couldn't do much to stop the descent, so he fell flat. The hard, cold road scratched his face. Chloe wouldn't be happy with him. His coat was dirty now. Another wound she would have to tend to, she would grumble angrily. Another cloth he dirtied too quickly. Couldn't he take care of himself and his things properly?

John would react like his wife. He was already displeased he had lost a part of his unpaid labor. Why did they take boys in, if they were good for nothing?

Adelio would smile behind his cup as he would sip on his tea. Finally, the parasite that bothered him would leave.

Matthew vomited. His stomach threw up everything it could until he was on his knees, dry heaving in the dirty puddles of the road.

"Matthew."

He looked up when he heard his name. Leather boots stood in front of him. A gangly teenager by the name of Adelio filled those boots.

They stared at each other.

Finally, Adelio bent down and offered his hand.

* * *

*Abu is the name of Aladdin's sidekick, his monkey, in Disney's Aladdin. Of course, it is offensive because he is likening Adelio to a monkey and making a comment on his skin colour.


	4. The Boy and the Beast

**I wanna fly**

"I'm not sorry, you know."

Matthew listened quietly. He wouldn't have been able to say anything much anyway. His throat felt raw.

The boy, his face flat against a pillow, inhaled deeply. Adelio's bed smelled nice. Something faint and soft, absolutely not like the smell of detergent (Matthew likened it to lily of the valley, one that had been thoroughly destroyed by a nuclear bomb.) his bed exuded. It almost made him forgot his back ached like crazy. His hands hurt too. He wanted to scratch the bloody flesh of his palms hidden under Band-aids.

Adelio's rough hands on his back made some things better. His heart still played a drum solo on his chest though.

"Well, I am for the beating. For the rest." There, the teen mutely traced Matthew's ribs. His stiff fingers brushed over purple skin. He had no need to push in the boy's meat to find his ribs, for there was no meat and the teen could easily see the thin ribs poorly hidden under pale skin. They stretched pallid skin littered with angry red spots, as if their only desire was to escape from such a poor prison. "You chose it." He said with a touch of hesitation.

Matthew craned his neck to stare at Adelio. What did he choose? Adelio stopped his ministration when he noticed the younger boy's stare.

"You could have acted like a brat and John would have chased you out. But you chose to act all sweet. You knew what you were getting into." Adelio said – _accused_ -.

Matthew pushed his face against the pillow. He didn't want to see Adelio's accusing stare. In the depths of his guts, something vicious raked his innards and tangled them.

 _No, I didn't know._ He just knew there were worst places to be in. The heavy scent of drugs filled his lungs. He didn't miss those days when angry shouts and profanities mingled together were hurled at him.

Matthew only regretted one thing from his time in the dormitory. He never spoke –not even once- to his silent companion. He was content to stay silent and he thought she was too. Now that he had tasted true isolation in a world filled with smiling, albeit indifferent people, he thought, perhaps she had wanted to hear his voice too. Maybe she just didn't know how to say it.

Perhaps, if he had just opened his mouth once, he would have created something beautiful.

Adelio went back to work without further ado.

(The kiddo looked so freaking sad.)

Only psycho liked to kick a beaten pup. Wait. No. Only psycho liked to kick a pup, period.

Rich was a psycho. Adelio wasn't. Simple as that.

Matthew whimpered and gnawed on his lips. Adelio had touched a sore spot, just under his shoulder blades. Gently, rough fingers spread cool ointment on his wounds. Matthew turned his head a bit so he could see Adelio without breaking his neck.

The teen was on his knees on the fluffy bed, his bushy eyebrow almost connected by his frown. His wild curly hair bobbed with each of his movements. He didn't look dangerous.

Where was the angry teen who promised to break his bones? Where was his roommate who didn't talk to him? Where was the boy covered in scary scars? Where was the Adelio who didn't care?

One second, Matthew had been flat on the ground of the road, and the second, he was in his underpants, flat on a soft bed. One instant, he had been unable to breathe. The following instant, warm air circulated freely in his lungs. And someone he didn't know was taking care of him. A known stranger who said he wasn't sorry but still tended to his wounds. An Adelio who said things he didn't understand.

Matthew knew he should not be there. Fudgy heck, he should be running away to somewhere children were properly looked after. Avoiding Adelio's warm touch had to be his priority. Wasn't this guy the one who promised to break his bones? The Adelio who glared at Matthew the rare times he remembered his roommate existed? The reason why he got hurt in the first place?

Without him, Matthew would have had a normal school year. He would not have gotten the beating of his life.

"For the guy who beat you up." Adelio stopped one instant, fingertips lingering on dark bruises and angry red marks that decorated sickly white skin. "I'll take care of it."

Adelio meant it. Matthew doubted it.

Silence fell on them, heavy with unsaid words and past indifference. Matthew wanted to hear Adelio's voice. He wished he would continue to grouch and grumble and mutter mysterious Spanish words under his breath. So he spoke.

"Who is he?" Matthew breathed. His voice sounded weird, raspy and distorted. The acrid taste of whatever had left his bowel made him sick

The tanned boy gently attacked a crimson spot on Matthew's side. "Rich Stall. He is pretty much the Golden Boy of the area. Everybody owns his pops some money. No one wants to be in the black book, so the guys who know shut up and the others firmly believe he is an angel fallen from the sky."

"Why does he hate…" Matthew trailed off. A bout of politeness prohibited him from finishing that sentence. Prying into other people's business was bad, or so they said.

"Why does he hate my guts?"Adelio shrugged and raised his fist. "I'm brown. And he is a total psycho. Once he set on fire the wood behind his barn. People were in there."

The guy could have burned the whole town and his entire county down. The part of his brain that didn't hurt despaired. A crazy wanted Adelio and him dead. Nice. "Nobody got hurt?"

Adelio's hands left Matthew's back and he sat cross-legged. He grinned a grimace. "We ran fast."

The boy wiggled his toes, felt his entire feet tingle and came to the conclusion that he would have totally died in that fire. He slowly sat down. "He didn't get caught?"

"He blamed his cousin. The police said it was an accidental fire." Adelio threw the frailer boy his worn black T-shirt and a pair of pants.

"Thanks." The boy muttered. He slowly got up. The places where the cream had been put felt sticky and oh-so soothed. He dressed up slowly. "Why did the police think it was accidental?"

"His dad." Adelio stopped talking to clumsily help Matthew pass his aching arms in the holes of the T-shirt. He maneuvered his arms as if they were made of crystal. He muttered a small sorry every time Matthew's face twitched in pain.

"His dad?" Matthew echoed after his head successfully went through the collar.

Adelio hummed and patted the bed. Matthew obediently sat down. "He paid a hefty sum for people to forget he was the one with gasoline and a match. Some people say he beat Rich good for that." His rictus was not faked.

"Like he beat me." Matthew said softly. He clenched his jaw immediately after, as if it could stop the words from pouring from his mouth.

The rictus disappeared and confusion replaced it. Finally, Adelio leaned back on his hands and hardness settled on his square jaw. "It's not the same. That asshole had it coming. He did something very wrong." Adelio hesitantly patted Matthew's head. "You did nothing wrong."

Matthew didn't like it when people messed with his hair. It was matted and curly; it hurt when people tugged at it. He let Adelio gently caress his hair. It loosened a very tight knock inside, yet made his eyes burn. The teen awkwardly moved his hand away after a few seconds.

He gazed over the head of Matthew while the younger boy roughly rubbed his eyes with his fists.

Adelio cleared his throat. "Anyway," then, he stared resolutely at the tiny boy sitting on a corner of his bed. "Rich won't bother you again."

Matthew noticed for the first time how light the color of Adelio's eyes was. He sniffed. His eyes were burning _again_. "Thank you." He whispered out.

Adelio peered at the exposed fair skin of his roommate. He looked even frailer with his old T-shirt on. Skinnier than all the other children that had lived in his house too. And painfully more worn out than when he first arrived in the Martin's. Adelio, in the deepest part of his guts, admitted he could, somehow, be partly at fault.

"Rich hadn't touched the other kids." Adelio blurted out quietly. (It was the closest he would ever come to an excuse.)

Matthew's shoulders quivered. The boy bit his dry lips. Another question arose; why did Rich attack him? His split lip made itself known. Matthew vaguely tasted blood. It wasn't something unusual anymore.

Adelio observed quietly Matthew. Small dots of red appeared on his lips and did absolutely nothing to make him look alive. A heart was beating in that bony ribcage, blood flowed in those thin veins and yet, only a greenish complexion showed on the kid's face. His violet eyes –what a weird, beautiful color- sunk in his eye sockets.

All the things he refused to see before. All the things he had known far too well, once.

"Abu! Matthew! We need help!" Chloe's call echoed in their warm bedroom.

Adelio jumped out of the bed. Matthew stumbled after him, ready to go back on the battlefield. His legs gave out under him after the second step. Hands roughly lifted him by the armpits and hoisted him to the lower bunk. The boys both leaned away after their contact ended.

Adelio pushed back his wild locks with a sigh. "John should've taken you to the hospital. Hell, even the senile _charlatán_ would've been a good idea."

Matthew tilted his head. The definitely not-English word sounded French, with a very strong Spanish accent on the last sylabbus. _Un charlatan_? _Did he mean a quack? We have one? Does he have googly eyes, wild hair and a bloody white coat? Does he give weirdly colored pills to his clients that led them into Death's embrace? Does he -_

Adelio stuffed his hands in his pockets and stared in wonder at the boy who looked lost in thought. He almost flicked his forehead to get a reaction out of the hazy-eyed boy. In the end, he chuckled. "Stay there. I'll tell them you're doing your homeworks." Adelio decided.

A strangled noise left Matthew's throat. Homeworks? The first and only time he had dared to try to escape his chores with that good reason, Chloe had laughed. And told him to get his cute little butt in the kitchen.

Even if, by some miracle, it worked, why should he stay there when he would eventually have to do his chores anyway? Chloe and John would certainly find more things for him to do and then it would pile up and Matthew would die under the heap of junks he was supposed to clean. Adelio would certainly place more junks on his corpse, just to hide it until it rotted.

Adelio's bed smelled good and his hands were large and warm and safe, but Adelio was… he was… he was an ass! He wanted Matthew dead.

Matthew got up. His knees shook way less than before. Tiny black dots didn't impede his vision anymore. His stomach had nothing more to reject. He ached less. He could do it. His legs wobbled as he took his first step, second step, third step forward-

In one fell swoop, known hands put him back on the bed. Brown eyes stared him down. Adelio's hands stayed on small shoulders as he stiffly pushed Matthew back onto the mattress.

"You, stay there." Adelio didn't break eye contact. Matthew didn't either. "I'll take care of it."

Matthew, bewildered, watched as his roommate headed towards the door. "Take a nap or something." The teen added awkwardly.

Adelio soundlessly closed the door behind him, leaving Matthew alone with the twilight. The last warm sunbeam of the day lit their bedroom with beautiful colours.

 _I'll take care of it_.

Someone cared. Adelio cared.

A long sigh escaped his lungs as he slumped on Adelio's bed. Another bloody stain decorated the pillow. He closed his eyes. The savor of lukewarm fries replaced the disgusting after-taste of his vomit. The odor of worn books and mint cigarettes blended with the mysterious, nice scent of Adelio's bed.

Adelio's hands had been rough and unbearably kind.

His eyes burned in a familiar way.

And for the first time in forever, it was okay.

 **[Happiness might just not be overrated]**

That evening, Matthew did nothing. No chore, no homework, no talking, just a blissful and nightmareless nap. Had an angel suddenly appeared and proclaimed children shouldn't work so much? Had a pretty fairy with a shining wand done his chores for him?

No, such things only happened in books.

Matthew learnt from Chloe's gushing praises during their supper that Adelio had taken care of his share of chores, claiming his roommate had important stuff to do for school.

Adelio, Matthew decided on the spot, would be a great character in a book.

As he munched on a delicious sandwich –maybe he would finish his plate for once- Chloe turned towards him with a smile.

"Matthew, wouldn't it be great to have your own bedroom?"

The mouthful he tried to not choke on tasted like dirt.

Finally, when he was sure he would not die pathetically thanks to a potato sandwich or worst, throw up on Chloe, he glimpsed at Adelio.

The teen was hunched over his plate, dark brown eyes trained on the half-sandwich in his hand.

He would not speak out for Matthew. Why would he? Someone's kindness could only go so far. Adelio was not an idiot. He would not oppose their hostess for something so stupid as his roommate leaving his room.

Matthew shouldn't oppose Chloe either. Besides, Adelio would definitely be happier alone. He would too. Right?

The sound thing to do would be to nod, smile and be done with it. Chloe asked for the form. She had already taken her decision. Matthew's humble opinion would not be taken into account. Sleeping in another bedroom would not kill him. Matthew's cheeks ached at the simple idea of smiling. He didn't want to. He didn't want to hurt anymore.

He wanted… he wanted…

Chloe stared at him curiously. She was waiting for a quick, affirmative answer. It wasn't coming. Her ward was staring silently at his half-bitten sandwich. Her little Matthew was cute. Stupid, but cute.

But even his cuteness wouldn't save him if he didn't like her cooking.

"You don't like my sandwich?" She took offense. Her cooking skills were awesome, thank you very much.

Matthew jumped. A violent red decorated his pale cheeks. John poured himself some water. Adelio downed the rest of his sandwich with his glass of milk. "Chloe, can I have second?"

Chloe smiled happily, Matthew's mortal offence forgotten as she put together a second sandwich for her Abu. He was such a good, outspoken boy.

Adelio glanced at his left. From under long blond eyelashes, violet eyes with specks of stardust observed his supper. The teen bit into his second serving with a flicker of a frown. Matthew's plate was half-full. Adelio's hands tingled with the memory of fragile skin and jutting bones. No way was he letting that twig of a boy alone.

Matthew stared at his plate. The sandwich was good, it really was, but swallowing another morsel was impossible. Unspoken words clogged his throat. Adelio had helped him. Chloe had completely forgotten about him again.

He had a chance. Matthew had to grasp it. He had to speak out. He had to raise his eyes, will his mouth open, muster his vocal chords.

He did so with an ease that frightened him. He had forgotten he could talk in front of his hosts. Frail, quivering words which had been kept inside for so long left his lips. "Can I stay with Adelio?"

Chloe momentarily stilled, before she remembered what they were talking about before. She smiled apologetically. "Oh dear, I think Abu would like to have his space back. Plus, you're a big boy. You should have your own room."

Matthew didn't want to be a big boy. He didn't want his own room. He didn't want to be alone.

"I'm fine with him staying." Adelio came to Matthew's rescue with a clear voice.

"Are you sure? Didn't you want him out of your room?" Chloe asked, surprised.

Adelio jerked his head in negative, inwardly cursing. Did she have to say that?

Matthew clenched his fist in the fabric of his pants. The bruises on his chest throbbed painfully. Adelio had wanted him out, then.

Chloe turned toward her husband. "What do you think, dear?"

John shrugged. Matthew was sure he hadn't followed the conversation. He rarely, if ever, took part in a conversation. Why would Chloe ask her husband anything when she took pretty much all the decisions?

Clear brown eyes, a lot different from Adelio's, looked at him. Something inside Matthew's chest tensed.

"Let the boys together." John decided.

Matthew waited for Chloe's chattering and remarks. It did not matter what they said, she had taken her decision before the beginning of that conversation. It was all so pointless. She wouldn't change her mind, not just because-

"Alright." Chloe said easily.

For a brief moment, Matthew thought he had heard a hallucination.

His hostess daintily cut a small piece of her quarter of a sandwich. She stopped her fork halfway. "Adelio, if you want to be alone, just say so. Matthew can and will use another room if he takes too much of your space."

Adelio nodded and received the rest of her sandwich with a soft 'thank you'. Under the table, knees brushed against each other before Adelio brusquely moved his leg away. Matthew could only thank him again and again in the confines of his mind.

"Matthew, are you finished?" Chloe asked calmly, as if she had not just been counteracted by her 'boys'.

Matthew blinked and stared at his plate. Finished? His bitten sandwich still was there, abandoned. Matthew wasn't particularly hungry anymore. It wasn't that good.

A strange taste lingered in his mouth. Something sweet, a tad like maple syrup, a bit like victory. He didn't dislike it.

He wasn't mad when Chloe interpreted his silence her way. She took his plate away and gave it to Adelio. She then served Adelio and John a bowl of fruit salad. Matthew always refused to take a dessert. Chloe never took one.

John did. Adelio did. Adelio acted a lot like John.

Matthew eyed John over his glass of cold milk while Chloe chattered about this and that. Adelio cracked a joke there and here. John acted as usual; a silent presence that made its capacity to speak known only when he was solicited.

The light faded, night came and Matthew went to bed. He heard the same soft music Chloe always listened to before she went to bed. It was not exactly bad, but his hostess could certainly find a new track to drink her daily dose of tea on.

Matthew stayed awake until Adelio came. He wanted to talk. His vocal cords actually worked after so long, he might as well use them. His voice had sounded distorted and weak, not at all like he remembered it. He ought to practice.

Matthew stared at the white ceiling of their bedroom. He imagined what he could say. What Adelio would say. What Matthew could ask. How Adelio would answer.

He wanted to know who Adelio was. He wanted to know who his hosts truly were. He wanted to know why Adelio suddenly cared.

Finally, Adelio stumbled into their room. The younger boy could see his tall form move clumsily around in the darkness. The teen bumped in more stuff than he usually did. The parquet creaked under his heavy footsteps.

Matthew's desire to talk dissolved with each bump Adelio made on his way to their bed.

Matthew bit his lips. He felt stupider than Phil, if that was possible.

Adelio had never been clumsy. He carried himself in a way Matthew could only admire. His gait had a suppleness Matthew had never succeeded to copy. He could carry the heaviest boxes without help. His muscles moved at his command, unlike Matthew's.

Matthew had often stared at Adelio when he could take a break during work. Adelio could do effortlessly what Matthew was incapable of doing. Adelio could carry Mathew as if he weighted nothing.

However, even the brightest sun could eventually run out of fuel.

Each night, Adelio's steps became heavy. Each night, his eyes would close on their own accord. That night was no different; worse, Adelio bumped and stumbled on air more than usual for he had taken charge of Matthew's share of labor.

Matthew counted ten of his breaths. A weight oppressed his chest. It made respiration ( _everything)_ difficult. The bed cracked familiarly under Adelio's added weight. The teen took his time to settle in a good position.

The boy decided his questions could wait. Three breaths later, he was lying on his belly. His mattress didn't creak or squeak under him.

"Adelio?" Matthew whispered softly. It still sounded like thunder in their quiet room.

"Yeah." Adelio yawned.

Face against his pillow, Matthew said softly one simple word. "Goodnight."

Brown eyes stared unblinkingly at the wooden bed slats above his head. Adelio knew a frail boy rested upon them. "Goodnight, _chico_."

 **[Let's try one more time]**

Adelio and Matthew did talk. However, they had a conversation which cannot be written down, for they did not exchange any words.

Matthew tried and failed to speak like he had wished to. He had difficulty stringing words together. Adelio had many qualities, but being patient was not one of them. (He did not want to admit he wasn't a great speaker either.)

The teen simply showed. His frown became a warning, his hands, an explanation, his smile, a support. Few words were exchanged, and it did trouble them.

At first, it had been hard to understand each other. Matthew misinterpreted Adelio's frown as a sign of anger or disappointment. He withdrew into himself for he was afraid to ask and scared of Adelio's answers. He still had problem to voice his thoughts in a way that pleased him.

On the other side, Adelio did not know if he should do some small talk or just shut it when he faced Matthew's silence and deep violet eyes.

They were young. They adapted. One day, McMillan pointed out they worked damn well together. John stared at his boys thoughtfully before he slapped McMillan out of his reverie.

Adelio had laughed and Matthew's lips had twitched upwards.

McMillan was a weird one. Sometimes, he wouldn't show up for work or he would leave before the end of the day. Matthew didn't like him much; Adelio and he had to work extra when that happened. He didn't know why John kept such a lousy worker.

Time passed. Adelio taught; Matthew learnt.

His bruises faded. His wounds closed. Rich made no appearance. The Martin sowed their seeds. The rainy spring changed into a humid summer. Flowers bloomed.

When he was outside, Matthew followed Adelio's only order to the letter. _Never ever stay alone. If you're alone, you're dead._ It was easy, since John had accepted to take him to school with Adelio. He often arrived late and Phil wrote messages and he got less stickers. No problem. Faking John's handwriting had been all too easy. Plus Phil's stickers were ugly. Who would want a flashy, sickly kind of green-yellow duck anyway? Not Matthew.

Adelio made the walk back with him in the afternoon every single day. The first time, Matthew tried to tell he wasn't obligated to do that. He very much felt it was unnecessary ( _God, wasn't he a burden?)._ Adelio shrugged and threw wild berries into Matthew's hands. "Eat, chico. The wind is going to blow you away."

"Thank you." Matthew breathed. He stared at the red fruits and saw treasures.

Adelio may or may not have blushed. He would certainly deny he did. The heat was simply getting to him.

He hid his cherry-colored cheeks with his hands and rambled on this and that. Matthew listened.

Matthew liked to listen to Adelio's voice –it would suddenly drop or crack for no reason! He could do Mickey Mouse and then Darth Vader super easily. What an awesome skill!

Thus, school ended without a hitch.

Matthew was now free for two months. A freedom made of chores, but Adelio's presence made everything better.

It had been even more of a chore to sit in his classroom until the end of the year. He had finally someone to talk to, someone who understood. To stay put for five hours a day when he could be out there with Adelio, under the sun, left a bitter taste in his mouth. Beside, Phil had smiled way too much at him. His classmates had looked surprised every day to see him. Matthew had supposed it was because he looked alive and well.

His report card arrived.

Phil had left a nice little comment on it. Something like, 'you can be proud of little Matthew, he is an awesome student'. Matthew hadn't read it till the end.

Matthew, however, could have done better in History. He knew he could have, but he hadn't cared much about what happened to autochthones five centuries ago. The present was far more interesting.

He was satisfied with the rest of his grades.

Chloe did not even look at his report card. She made a comment about how her boys didn't need to be intelligent to be farmers. John did look at it.

He nodded and that was it. Matthew supposed that meant everything was alright.

Adelio laughed happily that night. They stumbled together on the teen's bed, deep in the night. John hadn't joked when he had said summer was a busy season for them. He never joked about work.

"You passed the three tests, chico." Adelio exulted, white teeth glinting between stretched dark lips.

Matthew massaged his sore shoulders. He tilted his head, waiting for the rest. Adelio's smile became wilder as he held up three fingers. "Chloe's, John's and the rest of the world's."

A door was slammed somewhere in the house. They immediately quieted down. They strained their ears, frozen in place, ready to jump into their bed at any suspicious noises. After ten breaths, they slowly laid down on Adelio's bed. The moonlight made ominous and comforting shadows in their bedroom.

"For Chloe, you will always be the cute kid she is happy to care of. Only one thing will explode this cement: John. He's the second test." Adelio spoke in hushed, throaty whispers.

Matthew nodded. It made sense. He had, thanks to his eyes and conversations with Adelio, learnt who he had to please. Chloe, despite her sweet authority and not so gentle orders, was not the boss of the house. John was.

"John will never stop judging us. As long as we are useful to him and kind to his wife, we're good. The third test is important for him though. If we are good or bad problematic children."

At that, Matthew turned his head to look questioningly at his bedmate. The bed creaked as Adelio shifted to lie down.

"The good ones are like you. They are pitiable, they are true angels and they would do anything for a bit of attention. They will never stop anybody from sleeping at night-"

Matthew tugged Adelio's hair. Gently.

Adelio stiffly stared at the thin hand playing with his long dreadlocks. After three breaths, he relaxed. "What, it's true." Adelio pointed out jokingly.

Matthew shook his head, still carefully playing with Adelio's hair. Perhaps it was true, but it didn't mean he liked to hear such things.

Adelio shrugged at his little roommate's silence. "The bad ones are like me. They keep people on their toes and up at night, thinking of how they're going to behave with such nightmares." In the darkness of their bedroom, Matthew distinguished Adelio's shiny teeth peeking out between his stretched lips.

"Together, you and me, we are a set. People like set. John's no exception." Adelio continued. "Frank, the kid before you, tried to become bad, but I was already there. John sent him away the very next day."

Matthew did not bat an eyelid at such news.

A part of him wished he did.

Chloe's callous comment and John's indifference no longer affected him. Matthew knew what they wanted. They certainly didn't want kids. They wanted the glory and respect for taking care of problematic children. They wanted something to spend their free time on, a hobby of sort.

Sometimes, Matthew wondered if he was a bad guy. Adults often told him he had to be kind, charitable and helpful to those who suffered. If someone was hurt, he had to help that person. He had to feel sorry for that person.

He did pity that Frank. He really did.

But... not enough to wish he had never been that stupid.

Matthew felt conflicted.

Adults lied. (Sometimes.) They never told him how he was supposed to act when he was the one hurting.

Besides, Matthew really wanted to ask those adults what could he feel for a boy he never met. What should he feel for a boy's stupidity that permitted him to arrive in the Martin's?

After all, Adelio and he could moan all they wanted against their hosts, but that place was still so much better than what they had known before.

Matthew could eat his fill and have clothes that smelled almost nice.

Adelio was not abused.

They had each other.

That was enough.

Matthew had no need for more. He didn't regret his lack of contact with the other kids anymore.

He had learnt he was different from the other kids in his little school. Other kids didn't think about death. Other kids didn't plot to be kept. Other kids had parents. Other kids couldn't be mauled so easily.

They wouldn't have been able to understand anything. Or do anything to fill the gap between their worlds.

Adelio tolerated his presence and gave him wild berries. It was enough to give Matthew the strength to leave his bed every morning. His heart ached with the thought of his mother, but Adelio was real and he smiled at Matthew.

Her face, her pout, everything was fading. He didn't have a picture of her. Really, he had nothing, no reminder of his life before. He only had the company of his nightmares (memories) at night: his grandfather still growled and pounced at him.

He dreamt of _her_ too.

Once upon a time, a woman had helped him, had fought for him, and had cried for him. He had been so close - so _damn_ close- to call her mom (only in his mind though), even if she smoked way too many cigarettes. She left him. She couldn't keep him. No. Miss Smith did not even think about it.

Maybe, maybe, if he had tried harder –

A warm hand hovered above his eyes. "You think too much, chico."

Matthew leaned just a bit in the touch. Adelio would not like it otherwise. He would tense and flinch and slip away in a faraway place Matthew couldn't reach.

Matthew was extra careful when he was around Adelio. He always approached him up front, he only touched him when Adelio saw him and gave permission. They didn't talk about his scars or Rich.

Adelio didn't ask him about his mother.

Adelio was kind. Adelio was like him. Adelio let him touch him. Adelio wasn't a monster. Adelio openly cursed the people who hurt them.

Matthew knew that, technically, cursing other people was bad. Even if it was his teacher, the person who had closed his eyes when one of his pupils was assaulted.

Who was bad then? The victim who cursed or the perpetrator who was cursed? Adelio felt they were to be well within their rights. The boy wished he could be more like his roommate. More pragmatic. Pragmatism made life easier, less complicated. Why care for a kid that would leave in a month? Why, indeed, care about what people thought of you?

"John said I can show you how to steer the tractor." Adelio removed his hand.

"R-really?" The big red beast they called a tractor scared Matthew a bit.

"Si." Adelio chuckled. He knew his little roommate held no great love for the stinking, black fumes maker.

The teen shifted on his bed. A brief look at his alarm clock reminded him of their reality. He stood up with a profound sigh. "Time out, chico. We need to be up at five o'clock."

Matthew crawled out of the bed swiftly. Adelio, as usual, searched blindly around for his pajamas. "They're under your pillow."

Adelio chuckled when he indeed found his missing clothes there. "Thanks, bro."

Matthew climbed in his bed. Warm, fuzzy feelings and a ray of moonlight lit his eyes. "Matthew." Adelio called softly, one hand on the wooden barrier that was supposed to keep his roommate from falling down.

The boy turned in his bed to face his roommate. Adelio handed him something. A rectangle-shaped thing covered in plastic wrapper fell in his hands. "Eat it. You didn't eat much tonight." The teen bended down and disappeared in his bed before Matthew could thank him.

"Thank you." Matthew murmured gratefully.

Matthew had trouble eating when he truly listened to Chloe. And, since he was the only person around the table who was supposed to answer her, he had to listen to her.

Matthew would have preferred his mother's silence over her insensitive monologue any day of the year. She did not talk about anything remotely interesting, just whatever passed through her mind. She loved the sound of her own voice. It was tiring, listening to her.

But the worst of it all was when they had guests.

Their guests always sang praises to their hosts, as if Adelio and Matthew were difficult children. As if taking care of them was a daunting task.

Chloe would nod solemnly. How grateful her boys were, to leave under their protection. How unhappy they would be, away from nature and her farm and her John.

Sometimes, he wished he wasn't the 'nice' problematic child. Yet he was, so he had to listen and twitch his lips upwards when all he wanted to do was bang their head until they could see the truth. Strangulation seemed like a good idea too. Adelio did more caring than John and Chloe ever thought about.

 **[And again.]**

The first of July was a good day. Everywhere, he saw people waving Canadian flags, drinking beers, cooking BBQ and being genuinely happy.

The joyous mood affected all of the tenants of the Martin's. John talked a bit more, Chloe chattered their ears off, Adelio smiled more. Matthew's eyes twinkled.

Chloe had out-done herself and baked enough food for a regiment that day. John and Adelio still cleaned half of the plates. Matthew ate so many pancakes he could only sat drowsily on his chair, eyes unfocused.

Maybe he would take a last one. They tasted fabulous. His stomach would not explode, right?

He jumped when a colouring book fell on his lap. "Happy birthday, Matthew!"

Chloe ruffled his hair and kissed him on both cheeks. He blinked owlishly, unsure of what was happening.

His birthday?

The day that marked his aging process? The famed, mystical day where other children received gifts and hugs and love just because they were one year older? Just because they existed?

Matthew never had a birthday before.

John patted his shoulder roughly and placed a red Swiss Army knife in front of him. "You'll need it."

Matthew may or may not have thanked them. He didn't know. He stared at gifts, _real gifts_ , and a lump appeared in his throat. The metal of the knife ( _his)_ was cool against his fingertips.

Adelio made a strange noise. He looked flustered. Maybe he had eaten too much? Or maybe he wanted a knife too? If he wanted it, Matthew would give it to him.

"I'm gonna give you your gift later!" He blurted out, his tanned cheeks turning a shade darker.

Chloe laughed. "Abu, just admit you forgot it was Matthew's birthday."

She smiled and ruffled his bushy hair. She didn't see how he stilled a second. No eyes caught it, except Matthew's. "How forgetful you can be."

Adelio said nothing.

Matthew wanted to hug him and tell him everything was alright. He hadn't known it was his birthday either. Before, it had just been the day his mother went to the hospital and got out with a babe in her arms. A seriously unlucky day, if she could have been able to have her say.

Adelio stayed oddly silent during the rest of the day. Matthew was going to give him the knife to cheer him up, but he had no time. Between the fireworks, the movies and tasty popcorn, the bonfire, the s'mores they made on the fire and the stories Chloe told, he forgot.

The following morning, Adelio didn't budge from his bed when the time came to go work. Matthew sat on his bed, unsure of what to do. Wake him? How to do that without startling him?

He moved towards the ladder, his mattress creaking softly under him. He put a foot on it when Adelio spoke. "We have a day off."

A strangled, startled "What?" escaped Matthew. They had a day off yesterday; they couldn't have another one now. John wouldn't have allowed it.

"Just sleep, chico." Adelio shifted in his bed and soon after, his breathing evened out.

Matthew stayed still, one foot on his ladder. Finally, he slowly laid down on his bed. He stared as the sunrise's floodlight lit their bedroom. Its red walls turned orange and yellow. He closed his eyes. Wandering thoughts left him and flew away into the sunrise.

The two boys spent their morning sleeping. When Matthew finally woke up, the sun was high in the sky and Chloe was singing somewhere in the house. Adelio was up too. Up and stuffing stuff in a black backpack. He cocked his head towards Matthew's direction. "Good morning, sleeping beauty."

Matthew laughed. "Good morning, beast."

"Chloe made some pancakes. You should eat 'em before she snakes on 'em all." Matthew jumped from the bed and ran faster than he ever did before. He would eat those pancakes or… or _die_ trying. Chloe would not get his share of fluffy, delicious delicacies drenched in maple syrup. Never.

Fortunately, Chloe had just begun snaking when he arrived on the crime scene. She mournfully let go of his pancakes and he grinned while he ate them.

It was a glorious way to start the day.

Adelio soon arrived in the kitchen, backpack on his back. Matthew let him take a morsel of his pancakes, because, well, it was Adelio.

When the last piece of his tasty breakfast was swallowed, Adelio spoke. "Get dressed, we're hiking today."

Matthew stared at Adelio curiously. Didn't they have to help John before they got free time? And hiking? Where would they go?

Adelio shook his head, equally amused and frustrated. "I told you, we have a day off today."

Chloe cleared her throat as she entered in her kingdom. She glanced at Matthew's plate which had been wiped clean.

"John doesn't need your help today." John always needed them for something. "So maybe you could tidy up the basement. God knows it needs a good clean-up."

There it went again. Matthew and Adelio wouldn't go hiking then. Chloe would find a thousand chores and they would never get out of the house. It was her revenge for the pancakes she hadn't been able to eat.

It was sunny outside.

Adelio shook his head. "John said we can't touch his stuff."

Chloe raised an eyebrow. "I'm sure there are things that don't belong to him in there."

Adelio left his seat with Matthew's plate in hand. "We don't know which ones." He quipped. He put the dirty dish in the dishwater.

Chloe complained about John's junks as Matthew left. She would soon start to complain about her disobedient boys and their lack of common sense, Matthew knew. Chores built character. That was what Chloe told them often.

All he knew was that chores made his body sore.

Quickly, he dressed, pocketed his new knife (for Adelio!) and went down. Adelio was waiting for him in the entrance. "Put on your best shoes, we have a bit of a walk."

The younger boy nodded and put on his sneakers, the only shoes in his possession that weren't completely worn out. They would hold until autumn. Hopefully.

"Where are we going?" Matthew tested and pulled on his shoelaces. Wisps of them stayed in his hands when he was done tying them.

Adelio was already outside, on the wooden steps that led to their limited freedom. "Somewhere."

Matthew jogged to be at Adelio's side. The older boy walked in long strides. Matthew walked faster. "Where's somewhere?"

"Second star to the right and straight on till morning." Adelio recited.

"Peter Pan?" That was a Peter Pan's quote, Matthew was sure of it. He had read and reread that book. Adelio had laughed at his yawns and thrown a pillow his way everytime, telling him to sleep.

Neverland and its heroes fascinated him. Be it Peter Pan, the orphan who could fly thanks to pixie dust and happy thoughts, or Hook, the villainous pirate bent on having revenge, he liked them all.

He understood Hook. The pirate lived with the constant fear of Tick-Tock. He lived with the idea that somewhere, a creature that was fond of his flesh waited for the right time to strike and eat him up.

Really, Matthew could understand why he wanted to take revenge. He lost his hand and his ability to sleep soundly.

But that wasn't important right now. Since Adelio knew that quote, he must have read the book. That meant that Adelio read. Adelio's reading books. Was that possible?

"You read Peter Pan?" He blurted out.

"Maybe." Was Adelio's cryptic answer.

Matthew stumbled on a rock. Adelio exploded as he steadied him. "Look where you're going, chico. I know you like the ground, but no need to kiss it."

Matthew grumbled under his breath and tried to tickle his friend in retaliation for the bad joke. Adelio ran away with a laugh before Matthew's fingertips could graze his T-shirt.

"Adelio!" He yelled.

MacMillan waved at them when they flew into the forest. He was wandering on beaten paths between the fields, observing the crops in that lazy manner the boys knew far too well. MacMillan seemed ready to abandon his work and sleep on the soft grass somewhere.

Adelio and Matthew ran for a long time along almost nonexistent paths Matthew was not familiar with.

Matthew slowed down before Adelio. His heart hammered against his chest. Precious air went and left his lungs without making him feel any less out of breath.

Matthew slumped against a boulder and laughed. He had free day and he was spending it running like an idiot through a forest.

It was perfect.

All the trees he encountered asked to be climbed, all the boulders needed to be conquered, all the bushes wanted to be visited. His fingers itched to touch every surface, grab all the berries and –oh, wasn't that mint! Adelio liked to chew mint.

Adelio quickly stopped running and turned back when he didn't hear Matthew yelling his name anymore.

He found his chico slumped on a rock, smiling like a fool. He was holding mint leaves.

He let Matthew clasp his hand during the rest of their walk as he chewed on mint.

They went up and down several hills before they heard the soft gurgling of a river. At the top of small hill, Matthew saw its crystalline water shining under the sun's light.

With a scream and his arms high in the air, Adelio hurtled down the gentle slope. Matthew followed suit, laughing.

Adelio discarded his backpack, kicked his shoes and jumped into the water. Matthew hesitated on the small riverbank, bare-footed. His hesitation got him drenched in cold water. A grinning teen had something to do with it too. "Come on, Matthew!"

Matthew jumped. Choked on water too, but that's unimportant. The pond wasn't too deep. Matthew couldn't walk, but he wouldn't drown. Probably.

He swam a bit in the natural pond, trying to follow Adelio without much success. Adelio moved in the water like he did on the ground: effortlessly, powerfully. One of his strokes equated three of poor Matthew.

Matthew's swimming classes (a nice kid taught him, one summer) were a distant memory. He kicked and made large movements, hoping he was doing it right.

"You swim like a puppy!" Adelio pointed.

Matthew shrugged and got out of the water. He was tired.

He contently watched his friend swam in circle from a boulder. Beside some mosquitoes, life was good.

A question that always bugged him emerged in his mind. Maybe, maybe, Adelio would answer. It couldn't be that big of a deal, anyway. "Adelio?" The boy called.

"Hmm?" In two powerful strokes, the teen was next to Matthew's legs. He lazily propped his head against his hand, droplets falling from his untamed hair on Matthew's knees.

Matthew hesitated. No other chance would come, he reasoned. No other moment would be so perfect and make him as bold as Peter Pan. "Why do they call you Abu?" Matthew asked. His voice only quivered at the end, on the name he wasn't supposed to utter.

Brown eyes stared him down. Matthew shriveled. With a jerk, Adelio disappeared underwater.

Matthew almost cursed out loud. _Stupid, stupid, stupid- Matthew Williams, you're ruining everything_ -

An enormous geyser erupted in front of him. Matthew shrieked and yes, he would have made all the sopranos around the world shed a tear of jealousy. Not many people could scream that high.

But it was only Adelio and Matthew there, a pair of stupid idiots when it came to music. Also, Adelio was clearly going to kill Matthew. His hands and knees were on either side of the boy as he loomed over him, trapping him. Their faces were a breath away from each other.

Adelio could see the specks of blue and green hidden in Matthew's purple eyes.

Matthew could see the soft peach fuzz on Adelio's chin.

Adelio broke the silent spell. "That's the name my father gave me. They prefer it. Adelio's my first name though."

Any goodwill Matthew held towards his hosts disappeared into thin air. John and Chloe used the name Adelio's _abuser_ gave him.

His hands shook. He fisted the red knife hidden in his pocket. John's gift. Dirty, dirty knife. He felt dirty. His eyes burned.

"Forgive me." Matthew somehow croaked.

Adelio blinked. He moved backward to see Matthew's entire face. "What for?"

"I was th-thoughtless. 'Should've never asked that." Matthew said, eyes burning. His stomach hurt; an invisible hand was squeezing his inside. Adelio got called that name a million times a day. A million times a day, he was reminded of his father and he still smiled. Matthew did not know if he could have done the same if every day he had been reminded of his mother.

Adelio hesitated, touched by his sweet, my-heart-is-too-big chico. He finally rested his forehead against Matthew's. His warm breath blew on transparent tears. "It's okay, chico." He reassured.

"Forgive me." Matthew repeated.

"I forgive you." Adelio said more abruptly than he had wanted to. He repeated himself softly. He awkwardly patted Matthew's shoulder, suddenly realizing how close they were. He could feel Matthew's bony legs shivering under him.

 _Make him smile, defuse the situation, make him smile, defuse the situation-_

"I still will break your legs if you call me that though." Inwardly, Adelio promptly and colorfully cursed himself in French, Spanish and English. He still hadn't enough insults.

Matthew's heart skipped a beat. Adelio tried to crack a smile, muscles grimacing and eyebrows connecting. The younger boy mimicked him and nodded. All was well.

Adelio jumped from his lap and laid down on the boulder, on a nice, warm spot that hadn't been touched by his outburst. There, he stretched like a cat, eyeing his young confident from the corner of his eyes. Matthew stared at the small stars scars visible on his muscular arms.

Matthew mused over them silently. He turned away and blinked back unshed sniffed. What kind of horrible person could do that to _Adelio_? What kind of father could do that? He sniffed. He didn't know a lot about fathers, but weren't those supposed to take care of their children or something?

Adelio did not deserve what his father put him through. He did not deserve what John and Chloe, knowingly or not, did.

Matthew did not deserve what happened to him either.

He thought of his mother (cold she had been in life and in death.) Death did not let him say goodbye. His mother did not let him say anything.

Matthew understood it now. His mother had never loved him. She had hated him. Hated him so much she killed herself.

And that hurt. Knowing the person who was supposed to love you unconditionally hated you hurt. Knowing she killed herself without a thought for him damaged him. Knowing that everything he could have done would have never changed anything killed him.

Matthew loved his mother. He loved her so much he thought he had died when he touched her cold, cold skin and understood.

Each of his heartbeat pulled on his heartstrings.

"Did you know there are wolves here?" Adelio spoke up from his boulder, turned on the side to see his little, miserable snotty friend better. He propped his head against his fist.

Matthew jumped on his two feet. Wolves? Where? He surveyed their surroundings, the trees suddenly looking menacing and dark. The thick canopy only let a soft, subdued light pass through. He squatted down and moved slowly towards Adelio, fingers ready to latch onto him if something happened.

Adelio felt suddenly bad for frightening Matthew so much. "Relax. Wolves rarely attack humans. They're safer than humans."

"Safer?" Matthew echoed. He didn't understand how a thing with a lot of teeth could be safe in any way.

"Yup. If one wants to rip your throat, you will know cuz' it will try. But they don't kill when they don't need to. They never abuse their own. They don't attack their pups. They protect them." At the end, Adelio's voice cracked.

Matthew looked up. Adelio's gaze was lost in that place again (the place where Matthew couldn't reach him). Matthew's small hand hovered over Adelio's tanned one. The teen eyed him and didn't flinch away. Matthew slipped his hand in Adelio's hand. "Let's be wolves."

Adelio barked a laugh. He humored his chico with the truth. "The humans would eat us alive."

"…I will protect you." Matthew swore. Just like Adelio did for him. That was what friends were for. The rest of the world could get lost.

"And how will you do that? With your massive muscles and hidden guns?" Adelio commented. "Or perhaps you have some pixie dust?"

"I don't have muscles like you, or hidden guns or," Matthew stumbled on his words when the disagreeable realization that he had nothing dawned on him. What could he do for Adelio? "or anything really. B-But I can watch your back, make sure you eat and sleep enough. Make sure John and Chloe are not too mean."

Adelio stayed silent. "Just like you do." Matthew finished softly.

The wind played with their hair. The trees swished along it, as if they secretly wished to follow its sweet dance even if their roots were deeply embedded in the ground. The stream mounted rocks and crashed against boulders with a happy gurgling. Fallen leaves and flowers peacefully sailed on it, following a path only they knew.

"Okay."

Adelio's warm hand squeezed his own.

* * *

2018 Notice; I changed the first part of the chapter, where Matthew and Adelio have their first real conversation. I noticed that in the old version, Matthew thinks a lot and says practically nothing. Now, he is actually talking.

Yes, he is traumatized. Yes, he is still a bit afraid of Adelio. However, he craves attention. Not in the sense that he needs to the center of it, but in the sense that, like any human being and more specifically children, he needs care and love. His mother never fulfilled his need for physical and emotional relationships. His meeting with his grandfather left him scarred. Then he got emotionally attached to Miss Smith, but couldn't stay with her. Finally, the authority figures in his life are either assholes or indifferent to his fate.

Which means that Adelio could be the worst person alive and Matthew would still very much love him to the end of the earth for any scraps of his love. In the end, they're both deeply disturbed children who quickly learnt to cope with their shortcomings. Are their ways of coping good? It depends. When one feels endangered, like they do in the Martin's farm, one uses what one has. The fear of being rejected and sent away hovers over them like a sword of Damocles.

As for Adelio, his behavior can be explained easily. That boy tried to protect himself. As mentioned in chapter 3, four other kids came and went in the farm before Matthew arrived. Adelio barely mentions them, but it doesn't mean he didn't like any of them. He saw kids he liked leave him behind. Why attach yourself to kids that will leave anyway? Why attach yourself to kids that might push you out of your safe zone?

Ugh, I ranted too much. Sorry 'bout that. Just tell me what you think of this all, if you had the courage to read my ranting/explaining wall.

I bow deeply to all those who complimented my writing. I hope to always give you good quality.

For those who wished Matthew to be happy... you will see.

 _Charlatan: Quack doctor._

 _Chico: kid_

 _(Adelio is Cuba.)_


	5. I might be a wolf

**I wanna fly**

* * *

He slowly leaned against the cold wall, his hand reaching for his beard, ready to tug at it. His fingers grasped at nothingness. Awkwardly, he scratched his shaved cheek, still troubled by the uneven, somewhat smooth skin under his hand.

He then shifted under his damp blanket, trying to hide the small budge his revolver made. _Nobody could see it, nobody would see it_ , he repeated silently. The smelly, dirty rag he had found in a trash can and called a blanket would protect his treasure.

The hobo who had slept on the other corner of the street that night waved at him. He waved back jerkily when he would have liked to be nonchalant. Quickly, he hid his nervous hand under the blanket. His hands shook and ached for relief. Soon, he told himself, _soon_.

The hobo, from his distant corner, noticed not his companion's strange behavior. He left, whistling a jolly tune with sad undertones.

Light slowly flooded the entire street. The wet grey asphalt shined more brightly than the poor flowers- more weed than anything else- that clung to small cracks.

The old man rubbed his numb hands together. The cold seeped from the wall into his damp clothes, into his flesh. He rubbed his eyes tiredly, regretting his hastiness. He should have bought a coffee instead of settling down immediately while it still rained. He might catch a cold, knowing his old bones.

The sunlight blinded him one instant. Ah. He smiled wryly. Coffee. Cold. Would they really be important after it was done?

His loaded ally whispered it wouldn't.

"Good morning, man!"

The old man tilted his head as a younger man passed by him. The teen smiled brightly and went on his merry way, whistling happily to accompany the pigeons' chirping. More and more people started to get out of their house and flood the street, walking briskly and automatically to their work. Some other people greeted the old man. Those who worked around that street corner knew the old crazy well. The old man was new there; he had only been there for one week or two, but he already seemed to be part of the scenery. He was an integral part of the brick wall that supported his curved back clad in old, holed flannel.

He was a stone, abandoned there by mistake. He was a part of the street yet not interacting with it.

He was well known in the neighborhood because he didn't beg. He would just sit for hours at the same spot, squarely staring at everybody that passed by him from under his dirty hat.

Some people found his searching gaze unbearable and walked faster. Some patted their pockets and seemed apologetic. Others stopped and gave him their spare changes. He accepted it, but never kept it. All the other hobos in the area were his friends now. They quite liked him; he did not drink, smoke, and was not violent. Even better, he never begged and when he received money, he was quick to give it to a needy brother or sister. They thought him a good guy.

He could only force a grimace into a semblance of a smile when they thanked him.

At least, they did not ask about his tortured wrinkles and sunken eyes. Most of them knew stories were shared when they needed to be, never before.

Coppers fell in his cup in a cacophony of sounds. The old man lowered his eyes and said nothing. He shifted and massaged his numb legs. _Soon._

However, soon was not coming. Eyes fixed on the road, he caressed with his thumb the destroyed seam of his ugly blue blanket. Frazzled, lightly blue tinted threads scrammed in all directions.

A life destroyed, but so many more broken.

An unknown emotion rose from the pit of his empty belly, pricking the back of his throat and watering his eyes. Once upon a time, that rag had been colorful. Some threads had retained their colours, blemished by dirt and other unidentified products. It must have given joy and warmth to somebody, once.

He blinked furiously. He would not cry. He had a mission to accomplish. The weight of his only ally coldly burned his leg. It wanted to fire the world alight. Cut a seam cleanly and quickly.

Justice... yes, justice would be served.

He glanced at his brand new watch, a plastic blue one he had bought in a convenience store a few hours ago. One minute before 9 o'clock. Why wasn't _he_ there? _He_ should be there. There to receive his judgment. Then, he and his daughter would be in peace again.

As the little hand settled on the nine, the criminal appeared on the street, ready to pass on the death row. Blond dirty hair and piercing sky blue eyes hidden behind rectangle spectacles shone in the morning sunlight. He did not look like he was a criminal, while the future murderer looked every bit the part. The old man's ally twitched and called for blood.

The target advanced leisurely on the sidewalk, and the older man's mouth dried up with his every step. He had obligated himself to stare at that murderer's face every day, but seeing him in real life made it all worse. He discovered that face anew; those small wrinkles around his eyes, that little dimple on his left cheek that appeared when he smiled and that mouth that seemed made to smirk.

A hateful face, the old man had decided a long time ago, when he had found his daughter crying with a too round stomach.

Under his blanket, he grabbed his pocket where rested the killer's end. Soon, _he_ would walk in front of him. Soon, it would be done.

The murderer suddenly skipped forward, mouth twisted into a silly grin. His hair caught the sunlight and was set ablaze. A fire walked among the blasé and the sleepy.

The old stone was bedazzled.

His hand stilled over his revolver, cold metal burning his fingertips. The happy younger man sent him a smile when he passed him. His eyes smiled too, small wrinkles appearing on the corner of his eyes.

The old man stared at his broad back. That poisonous smile disappeared from his mind. Another set of blue eyes, paler and lifeless and beloved, appeared. One that would never open again, in spite of his begging and cries.

The icy bite that scorched his skin through his pocket reminded him he had a plan. He had to follow it through.

For Justice. For Marianne.

The blue blanket that had seen better days fell on the ground.

"Jones!" His hoarse yell did not garner any attention in that busy road. Some passers-by looked around as they continued to walk, searching for the source of such an outburst so early in the morning. Perhaps they would see a good show?

"Alfred Jones!" The blond man stopped and looked around, searching. He smiled automatically, albeit curiously at the old hobo who had called his name. The old man looked crooked, although his back was as straight as an arrow. Sunken eyes, shadowed by a dirty hat, stared at him fixedly.

"Yes?" Jones said pleasantly. He glanced at his watch and decided that if the old man was interesting, he would receive some money.

He stopped smiling when he saw the shine of the gun pointed at him.

That time, Alfred Jones was the one to be utterly bedazzled.

 **[And so it began.]**

 _Alfred Jones, president of 'MURICA, was assaulted 2 days ago by a 62 years old Canadian just a block away from his office in New York City–_

That news would have never made any ripples in dear Matthew Williams's life if Adelio had not seen it when he browsed the Internet. He had clicked on the link because he was bored and it seemed to be a hot-topic on Facebook. A part of him was also highly amused by the idea of a richtard being mugged by an old man. He skimmed through the short article. Apparently, the old man, Albert Williams, 62 years old, Canadian (from Québec), hobo, had decided it was a good day to attack a lawful –and fucking rich, if Adelio had read correctly- citizen. Nobody knew his reasons.

Most people commented that he did that, obviously, for money.

Unluckily, his gun jammed and the guy he tried to mug knew how to pack a punch.

End of the story. _Boring._

Adelio stretched, popping his knuckles in the process. He made a move to close his laptop when his eyes fell on the crazy mugger's name. Albert Williams.

Wasn't that Matthew's fucked up grampa's name?

He chuckled at the absurdity. Nha, that guy couldn't be that crazy.

... He did abandon Matthew though.

Adelio typed that name in his browser.

He had an idea of what that old gizzer ought to look like. Wild white beard, unkempt look and _flannel (that spelled old and Canadian)_. Matthew could be weirdly talkative after one of his nightmares. No such man appeared on the research engine. He only found a dude from California and results for very much dead people. One artist, two or three athletes, two businessmen, one politician and no batshit insane old dude.

The almost mugged man's face popped up too. Alfred Jones, not that young, rich, not that handsome, blue eyes, a million dollars smile. Adelio studied his face; those teeth were way too white. His suits were nice though.

Adelio massaged his stiff neck. Once again, he was about to close his laptop for good, forget everything about that weird news and do something productive with his life (not really, but a guy could dream right?), but he made a fatal error. He glanced fleetingly at his desktop background.

It was a photo of him and Matthew together, just after they went back home from their little swim in the river. Adelio had tickled Matthew to get him to laugh. He had been forced by his chico; the kid would not smile at all otherwise. Adelio didn't know a lot of stuff, but he knew a good photo needed some smile!

And since he sure as heck wasn't going to grin like a fucking idiot for a photo, that task was handed to Matthew. Hence the tickling.

The lines were a bit blurred, the angle was a bit weird, but Matthew was laughing and his tired eyes were twinkling. Matthew didn't like it, because Adelio's face was blurred and only half in the photo. Adelio still kept it and put it as his wallpaper. He knew he had been smiling and looking at Matthew when he had snapped it.

Adelio clicked on Jones' photo and slowly dragged it next to Matthew's face.

Golden and wheat clashed. Blue and purple clashed.

Adelio wished the rest of their faces would also clash. It didn't. Sure, Matthew had long silky blond hair and weird coloured eyes, but otherwise he looked like a younger version of the rich bastard.

Matthew's not grandpa appeared on the news and mugged a man who looked too much like his chico. Too many coincidences for it to be normal.

...Maybe it was the lighting of that photo...?

Adelio researched other pictures of Alfred Jones.

On each of them, he found the small dimple and the thin lips he knew far too well. From the curve of the jaw to the delicately arched eyebrows, everything he stared at became a clue, an evidence.

From what Internet could tell, Alfred Jones was an American well into his forties and the people magazines absolutely loved him. He had had more affairs during Adelio's life than Adelio had fingers.

Which meant he couldn't control his dick.

Which meant he could, potentially, be Matthew's father.

No. That was impossible. Maybe it wasn't even Matthew's gramps. That Alfred Jones couldn't be Matthew's father.

Matthew didn't have a father.

Matthew's not grandpa tried to kill Alfred Jones, Matthew's not dad. Those men were totally unrelated to his chico. Just two men who were conveniently named and faced to give Adelio a good scare. He nodded to himself, neck stiff and jerky, and closed his browser. He cleared the history too, because his computer was kinda slow and it was important to clean once in a while. He didn't do it because he didn't want Matthew to see that. Absolutely not.

Matthew was hopeless with computers anyway. Adelio was pretty sure the boy didn't know what a history was or how to access it.

He slapped his laptop close. His knocked stomach and uneasy mind led him to the kitchen. He would find something to eat there. Something with a lot of sugar. Maybe a rice krispies. Those were nice.

He lost his appetite when he arrived in the kitchen. There, in the middle of the blue kitchen, stood Matthew and Chloe. One was listening intently and nodding every other second while the other was bestowing her wisdom. And about a thousand directives to follow and a hundred interdictions to never cross if Matthew wanted to continue living under her roof.

Matthew had nodded to Chloe's every order. Knowing him, he must have actually seriously listened to her.

"Don't burn the pot. It cost an arm." Chloe finished her litany. "Oh, don't burn your hands either. I am not taking care of your boo boo."

Adelio clenched and unclenched his jaw while he browsed through the cupboard. Nope. No rice krispies.

He smiled briefly at her when she passed him.

His fingers crushed an abandoned plastic wrapper. (He knew he shouldn't be so angry. But his reserve of pity for her had long been emptied.)

These days, he dreamt of the day he could tell her what he really thought of her. Preferably somewhere Matthew could not hear, because his rant would contain a lot of words starting with F. And maybe some slapping.

Or a lot. Adelio wasn't picky.

Finally, his hand found something satisfactory. A chocolate bar would do to calm his knocked stomach until dinner.

A dull thud drew his attention to the table. There, Matthew was setting several things down.

"What'cha doing?" Adelio asked.

"Cooking." Matthew said.

Adelio moved from his spot to station himself next to his boy, hip against the wooden counter. Then, Adelio noticed the bundle of mint sitting innocently on his board. Matthew took out a too big knife for his small hands.

Slowly, the younger boy minced mint, shoulders stiffly moving every time the knife fell down.

Adelio smiled wryly. A little boy with a big knife, cutting mint like it was an important matter.

When all of it, leaves and stems, was chopped, the younger boy turned to the stove. The boy who only knew how to make sandwiches and cut fruits had decided to tackle the beast. Matthew stood in front of it, unmoving. Did he know how to use it?

Matthew rubbed his cheek absently. Adelio glanced around. No Chloe. He left his spot, ready to show off his meager cooking skills. He was a complete idiot. He knew the basics. (He would not burn his rice or his pasta, but cooking was no passion of his.)

Matthew pushed his hand back with a frown. Adelio had the sudden urge to ruffle his hair. "I want to do it alone."

From somewhere inside the house, Chloe's high-pitched voice rang out. "Matthew needs to do it alone!" Damn woman and her weird sixth sense. Chloe continued to talk, sometimes about Matthew being independent or whatever (Adelio didn't really listen). The teen rolled his eyes.

Matthew slowly touched a button and turned it. Quickly, he put the pot on the stove and poured a whole bottle of cane syrup in it.

Adelio let an amused sigh out. Matthew's purple eyes were glued to the pot as the transparent cane syrup quickly became opaque. His mouth was slightly open, showing the spot where his missing front milk tooth used to be.

The tooth fairy had come a few nights before, taken Matthew's tooth and placed 5$ under his pillow in exchange. Really, the fairy had been a bit too loud with his heavy footsteps and his grumbles about Matthew not being a little kid anymore. Adelio had almost laughed out loud when he had seen John looking so pitiful. That man sure loved his money.

Adelio and Matthew had hidden the blue bill with the rest of their money. For dark chocolate and other fundamental needs.

Quickly, bubbles rapidly appeared on the surface of the syrup until the whole concoction erupted in a volcano of white, sugary lava. Adelio poked Matthew's arm softly. The boy jolted and jumped to get the minced mint. He added the minced mint in the white lava and put the lid on. A second later, Matthew took the lid off. With nervous jerks of his wrist, he stirred the syrup. Adelio understood that. Scrubbing off burnt sugar was not a nice experience, even more if the burnt sugar was on one of Chloe's precious babies- pots. It was not her favorite one, but she would still unleash hell on him if he ruined it in any way.

Toothpaste's scent filled the kitchen. Mint syrup, Adelio realized. Matthew was making mint syrup. His favorite. The only thing Chloe rarely bought for him, because John didn't like it. So he could only fulfill his craving by eating the leaves of the wild mint that grew around the house in summer.

His throat tightened.

Forever and five minutes later, the little boy turned off the stove. He sighed and watched as the syrup cooled down.

"How long does it need to infuse?" Adelio asked, voice's gruff.

Matthew's untameable, adorable lock of hair bobbed with his every movement as he tidied up the counter and threw the scraps away. "Two hours, according to Chloe."

Adelio nodded at Matthew's back.

A few steps later and he was out of the house. The Sun was high in the sky, hidden behind a blanket of heavy, humid grey clouds that seemed to be ready to puke its warm water on their head. The air clung to his skin and dampened his clothes.

Yet, birds were singing, flowers were blooming and Adelio was thinking.

Adelio had fantasized about his future before. What he would do, where he would go and when and how he would finally say 'fuck you' to the Martins. A question had always plagued him during those daydreams; how much would he need to live alone?

He had calculated meticulously and come to the conclusion that he wouldn't need that much. Adelio hadn't many things, but he had money. John had accepted to pay him for his manual work after he had turned 12 years old. He received the minimum wage, but he didn't really spend it on anything, so he could consider himself rich. He also kept the money Chloe occasionally gave to him to buy stuff.

The plan had been to quietly finish his last year of high school, in which he would turn 18 years old, and then leave the Martins forever. Then, he would find a nice, small apartment in the vicinity of Toronto or Ottawa, find a job and go on with his life. No more farmworks, no more Rich, no more problematic kids, no more Chloe.

Matthew's arrival hadn't changed anything. The boy living in his bedroom hadn't changed anything. Adelio taking care of him hadn't changed anything. Matthew was strong. He would be fine on his own. Like Adelio had been.

The first day, well, the day Adelio reached for Matthew, the boy looked ready to keel over. Now, though… now, Matthew was fine. With Adelio or without him, Matthew Williams would be fine. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth for some reason.

The day he reached for his chico, Adelio hadn't suddenly decided to grow a conscience. He hadn't woken that morning thinking he would be a good big brother to Matthew. Fuck, it hadn't been one of his plans to fucking care so damn much.

It had not started on the first day, when Matthew Williams had tried to bawl his eyes out silently, failed and disturbed his much deserved sleep. It had not started when Chloe's poster boy helped him with the best of his abilities and feeble hands (which meant he was more of a burden than anything). It had not started when a little boy dry heaved in the bathroom after one of his nightmares and woke him up. It had not started when he followed Adelio around like a lost puppy. It had not started when Matthew saw his scars.

(Actually, Adelio had wanted to strangle him. _Can't you fucking knock, boya?_ )

It had not started when Matthew came back from school with bruises that spelled Rich.

It never started. During a long time, Adelio had been fine seeing and not caring. Then one day, he hadn't been so fine with it for whatever reason.

Adelio did not care about a lot of stuff. He certainly didn't care about people. Too much stress. Too many betrayals. So, he hadn't cared when Matthew cried under the shower. He hadn't cared when the boy didn't eat his fill and threw up the rest. He didn't notice that the boy avoided him, avoided Chloe's touch, avoided the whole world.

When he understood that Matthew had perhaps woken his conscience up, Adelio had thought he could stop this, whatever it was, anytime. Then, almost naturally, Matthew became _chico_. Someone a bit more special than the others. (Matthew was good at a lot of things; French, acting cute, being so damn loveable and thwarting his plans.)

Again, his little roommate unknowingly changed his plan, the one he had dreamt of since forever. _How much would they –Matthew and he- need to live alone?_

Adelio observed the empty fields of corn. He scratched his eyebrow. A rictus deformed his mouth.

No. He would never be able to wait until Matthew was old enough. He would turn crazy in that fucked up town and kill someone. He wouldn't change all of his plans because of mint syrup.

And what if that guy, Jones, one day woke up and decided he had a kid? How would it end? Would he take Matthew away and Adelio would be left here, in the shadow of pine trees?

A heavy gust of wind blew through the lands, flattening the high grass and the cattails. It slapped his wild locks into his face. He closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of the hills. Pine trees, river's mud, cut-grass and cattle's breathe.

 _Why wait then?_ Adelio could kidnap Matthew and-.

What. Da. Fuck.

He batted his hair away and slapped his face. Bad, stupid Adelio. Him, seriously taking care of someone? Ah, bad joke. He couldn't keep a dog alive, how well would he do with a tiny boy like Matthew? As if Matthew would accept anyway-

He would. Matthew would accept to leave with him. His chico would smile brightly, eyes lit and brows smooth, and ask for their destination.

They could make themselves scarce forever –Adelio knew the right people for that kind of stuff-. For the first time, his acquaintances from the Indian reserve would serve to something good. Adelio Abukcheesh Roy and Matthew Williams _could_ disappear. It would cost money and take time, but they could.

His head spun. What name would they take? Johnson, Jackson, Myrtle, Potter, Smith?

A tremor shook his chest. Money, he had. John did not care enough to notice right away if they left. The Martin wouldn't act right after their disappearance. Once, Frank pulled a stunt and ran away. It took three days for John to decide it could be important to find the boy who was supposed to be under his care.

Chloe... if he chose the right moment, she wouldn't care much either. Adelio knew what time of the year made her as unresponsive as a dead sparrow.

With what they had, they could live one year or maybe even more without much problem. They would settle somewhere, preferably in a big city. Matthew would go to school, Adelio would find a part-time job. Finish school. He would get money from the government if he did. Not necessarily go to college, just find something he would like to do.

It was the first time in a long time that Adelio seriously thought about continuing going to school after his 18th birthday. Chloe had always claimed that he wouldn't need to, since he would work on their farm anyway. Earn an honest living without filling his head with stupid ideas, she had said.

He would earn an honest living. Away from that wretched town and that indifferent and sad, bitter couple. With Matthew. For him and his little chico.

The grass took on a silver shine as the sunlight pierced the clouds.

"Adelio!" A faint yell called him. Matthew was waving at him from the other side of the field.

Adelio waved back and jogged towards the house. Matthew excitedly went back into the kitchen and pointed at the pot. "It's done!"

A whiff of mint tickled his nose. Adelio blinked. So much time had passed? A glance at the clock told him he had indeed stayed outside far too long.

He peered at the pot. The syrup had a strange colour. Transparent yellow with a hint of green. It certainly did not have the flashy green colour of the mint syrup he had had before.

Did Matthew fail?

Under Matthew's anxious eyes, Adelio dipped a finger in the syrup. He licked it. A mint bomb exploded in his mouth.

"So?"

"It's awful.." Matthew's brows creased instantly. "-ly good."

Matthew pinched Adelio's side. "You butt!"

Adelio's laugh was loud and liberated.

 **[...If you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world...]**

Hot days. Humid days. Long days. Summer days.

Adelio found Matthew on his knees in their strawberry plants, harvesting the delicious fruits. The boy handed a couple to the teen, as usual. He chomped on them.

"Chloe says she wants to make jam." Matthew explained softly.

Adelio hummed. He sat on his heels, observing the plants Matthew had cleared. No stray red fruit rested on them. Lightly red-colored fingers had nimbly snatched them and put them in a salad bowl.

The teen smiled. Grass blades and mud had found their way into Matthew's short curls. The wavy long hair had become, under Chloe's scissors, a heap of short curls not unlike his own. But Matthew's was soft and easy to untangle while his was not.

Still, they looked a bit alike now.

"Chico, I know Chloe told you mud is good for your skin, but you don't need to roll in every puddle you find." Adelio quipped.

Adelio almost received a warm mud ball in the face for that comment. Almost, because Matthew's aim was incredibly off. Adelio laughed and bent down. Matthew picked the fruits diligently while Adelio took one at a time, threw away its stalk and ate it. Then the one after would be for the boy. Adelio knew he hadn't dared to snatch one or two for himself before. Matthew obediently opened his mouth when it was offered and munched happily on it.

"Chico." The teen called.

"Hmm?" Matthew, arms deep in the strawberry plants, did not look up.

Adelio shifted away. "You got a spider on your arm." He waited for the comical girly scream and epileptic spasms Matthew never failed to deliver every time he was scared. That was always fun to watch. Much more amusing and alive than the silent screams he made when he was terrified.

Matthew simply stared at his arm and the big, hairy spider running atop it. He swiped it away coolly.

Adelio certainly didn't pout at Matthew's not-fun-at-all reaction.

A funny thought made him gulp strawberries faster. A few months ago, his chico jumped at the slightest sound. A few months ago, his chico didn't weight more than a grass blade. When he looked at Matthew's hunched back, his shoulder blades did not look like small, bony wings that were ready to fly off his body. The teen knew that under that too big T-shirt were ribs that did not seem ready to pierce smooth, unblemished skin. A tingling feeling –but not an unpleasant one- lit his insides. Adelio felt oddly proud.

"If you had all the money in the world," Matthew paused from his work and looked at Adelio, "what would you do with it?" The dreamy boy asked.

Adelio starred vacantly at his reddened hands. He squeezed his latest catch between his index and his thumb, not hungry anymore. A thought that plagued his daydreams almost escaped him. _Escape faraway with you._

The words didn't come out. Matthew would not understand if he said that. He hadn't told him yet. The wait until his eighteenth birthday was excruciating.

"Make two submarines collide underwater." He finally said.

Matthew squinted. He brushed the uneven bangs stuck to his forehead back. A stray red line appeared on his face. "Do you think they would explode?" He asked, interested.

Adelio paused, picturing what he had said. Two submarines colliding underwater, exploding in a blaze of fire. Fireworks underwater. A smile played about his lips. "Yeah. That'd sure make a good show."

They shared a conniving smile before they –mostly Matthew- went back to work. "Do you think there would be fire on the surface?" Matthew asked.

"Yeah. The gas there would surely set on fire or something." Adelio mused.

"It would be bad for the fishes, though." Matthew noted.

Ah. Typical Matthew. Worrying about nonexistent fishes. "We could do it in an aquarium." That could fit two immense vessels. "A really big one."

"Do you think an aquarium that big exists?" Matthew asked.

"Chico, if I have all the money in the world, I think I can build a big aquarium just for this experiment." _I would kidnap you and then do that._

Matthew nodded thoughtfully. "Ah. True."

Adelio starred at his bent nape. Curly, golden hair stuck to fair, soaked skin. That colour reminded him of a darker shade worn by a man that could, maybe, in another dimension, be Matthew's father.

Adelio's good mood disappeared.

 **[Curiosity killed the cat, they say. I say the cat would have died anyway, but of boredom.]**

Adelio counted the days. Until the end of summer. Until his 17th birthday. Until his 18th.

From time to time, he would research news about Alfred Jones and Albert Williams. Nothing noteworthy appeared during his hunts. Love affairs, money, scandalous accidents, money, money, attack on his life, scandals. Jones' life was repetitive. Oh, he had a daughter apparently.

Nothing about a possible affair with Marianne Williams though. Nothing about Albert Williams either. Which was weird, now that he thought about it. Hadn't at least one person taken his mug when he had attacked Jones? He did shove a gun into Jones' face during rush hour in a busy road in a big city. Didn't people have cellphone to take selfies and record shit like that? A lot of people must have taken their phone out to record an old man trying to kill somebody and then getting beat the hell out by his victim. But no footage appeared on the Internet. That was weird.

The mystery was still complete and Adelio worried.

Did that man know he had a wonderful, awesome son stranded in the middle of nowhere, Ontario, Canada? Would he care? If he were to know, would he let Matthew be with him? Would Matthew want to know about his biological father?

If he had felt sappy, he would have stolen a sunflower from their neighbour's courtyard and torn its yellow petals while saying "Dad" and "Not Dad". He hadn't, of course. He wasn't a sap. The last petal hadn't been "Dad" either. No way. No way in hell.

He could swear on his cousin's girlfriend's best-friend's aunt-thrice-removed's dog that he hadn't. If he had had a cousin to begin with.

The curly-haired teen busied himself with work. It was easy to forget then. Summer was their busy season. Their most busy days, ironically, were Saturday and Sunday. The Martin's farm was part of a cooperative that proposed baskets of seasonal (and organic!) fruits and vegetables plus a tiny bit of meat on the side. Each Sunday, a reefer would come to their farm and took a certain amount of their ripe vegetables and fruits. During the week, they harvested and sorted the products so that on Sunday morning, their beloved goods would safely leave the farm in nice boxes in a nice reefer.

Matthew would often spend the rest of his Sunday lying in his bed. His poor back didn't like to carry so much stuff. He didn't complain, but Adelio knew that look of pain he would sometimes show.

Sundays were the special days where Adelio would ruffle Matthew's hair and massage him. Not that his hair was really soft and silky and nice to touch and that Adelio could see if his chico was in good health by massaging him. As if.

The reason was that it was Sunday. Sundays were good days. Nothing more, nothing less.

Matthew still smiled like Adelio gave him the best, biggest gift. The teen always felt a tad awesomer.

His wait-and-see-strategy came to an end with a conversation on a Sunday evening. Just some truthful sentences exchanged on his bed made him take a few steps back and leap.

"Matthew..." Adelio turned from his laptop and called his roommate softly, minding John's presence in the couple's room. He never called his roommate Matthew. Chico, boy, sleeping beauty, Goldilocks, yes. Matthew, no. It felt unnatural on his tongue.

"Yeah?" Matthew looked up from his book. Another fantasy book, by the look of the cover. A boy sitting on an enormous peach, drawn in a childish way, decorated it.

Adelio had wanted to have a nice, happy conversation about their sad family history before asking him. He really had. He didn't. "D-do you know your father?" Adelio inwardly cursed. I didn't ask you to stutter, tongue!

"No." Matthew answered, before his eyes found themselves on lines after lines of words that made no sense no matter how many times he read them.

Adelio scratched his nape. "Like, you never met him or...?"

Matthew put his chin on his book with a shrug. "I just don't know who he is. My... mother never talked about him. And Miss Smith tried to find him, but, well..." The boy trailed off. Adelio understood. Matthew wouldn't be there if she had found his father.

No clues on who his father was.

Fuck. Alfred Jones could be his father.

"You still have that lady's phone number?" The teen asked. He would get his answer that way. If she didn't know and had no way of knowing, it would the end. Alfred Jones would be forgotten and never mentioned again.

Matthew stilled. He looked around, most probably to see if Chloe was nearby. Adelio wanted to scoff; of course, he wouldn't let her anywhere near them while they talked about that.

The boy nodded. Adelio's stomach flipped. Most probably something he had eaten. Chloe's cooking was not up to par these days. "I need it."

Matthew looked at him curiously. Adelio extended his hand, ready to receive it and burn it – dial it! Yes, dial it. He needed to know. Then he would burn it to get rid of the evidence. Chloe came too often in their room to rummage through their stuff to let that sit around.

He was taken aback when Matthew recited it, singing under his breath. Matthew smiled cheekily at his surprised face. "I burned the evidence." His chico murmured in a conspiratorial tone.

Welp, Matthew and he thought alike too now. When will he start to beat up people and have a crappy archenemy?

"You still remember it?" Adelio hoped –just a tiny bit- that Matthew didn't remember it correctly.

The boy closed his book with a little smile. "Yeah. It's like a counting rhyme. I recite it when I work."

Adelio's brows went up. The teen did not really think when he worked. Things he had done countless times were done mechanically, without a thought. Load, unload, pack, unpack, tell jokes, smile at Chloe, and put a foot in front of the other. He only paused and thought when his work had a new variable.

He could only listen in wonder. Matthew was weird. Not in a bad way though.

Adelio dialed it and left the room. He locked himself in the bathroom. Matthew didn't follow.

One, two, three, four, enough rings for Adelio to understand that he had acted bizarrely. Matthew might suspect something now. Great.

"Hello."

The teen, standing in a bathroom that smelled of coconut shampoo, stayed silent. His thumb hovered on the red button, ready to end this folly. He wasn't even sure- Another "Hello", more forceful and impatient entered his ears.

He inhaled. "Hello, miss Smith. I am Adelio, Matthew's host brother." He exhaled.

"Who?"

"Matthew Williams, the kid you placed in my host family –the Martin- this winter." Adelio tried to talk slowly. Maybe she was a bit deaf.

"Ah, Matthew!" Her hoarse voice took a friendlier tone. "Then you must be Abe. How is he?"

Adelio. His name was Adelio. He bit the inside of his lips and did not correct her. It was better than Abu, at least.

"He is... better." The teen said lamely. What could he say? Matthew no longer unknowingly starved himself. He was no longer bullied by his archenemy. His chico was no longer a young pup scared by the big, wide world. Adelio didn't treat him like shit anymore.

Some things were better left unsaid.

The static silence rattled his ear.

"Why are you calling me?" Miss Smith asked when their silent communion became a bit too much to bear.

"This is about Matthew's family. Do you know who his father is?" He asked breathlessly.

"Why are you asking this?" Normal tone, normal question, but Adelio felt the it's-not-your-business-m'boy.

"Listen, lady-" manners, Adelio, manners, "please, I need to know. It's for Matthew." He didn't beg. He pleaded.

"…No. The mother never declared his identity and his grand-father claimed to not know." Miss Smith informed him slowly after a small pause.

Adelio rubbed his brows. He could end the phone call there, he thought. Bury what he knew so deep no one would discover it. "I think I might know who his father is."

Miss Smith stayed silent a second, before she sighed tiredly. It sounded like the moan of John's tractor when they turned it on, just before the motor started to rumble and hum. "Abe, listen. It is normal to want and look for a father figure, but Jimmy –excuse me, John is there for that. Neither Matthew nor you need to look-"

"Listen to me, you old lady!" Adelio recounted everything in one breath. That Albert Williams on the news (Matthew's grampa, probably), that Alfred Jones who looked a bit too much like his chico for it to be a coincidence. In brief, the sharp shard of glass that had a found a convenient place in his heart to make him bleed.

On the line, Miss Smith stayed silent, oddly patient and understanding. "My boy, what do you want me to do?"

The term of endearment went over his head. The shard was out. "Could it be possible to know if that Williams is Matthew's gramps?"

Miss Smith grumbled something under her breath on the other side. She finally made a sound of assent. "I'll see what I can do. Don't hope too much!" Adelio breathed out deeply. Finally. The answer was in his reach. He would know and Alfred Jones wouldn't be one of his preoccupations anymore. "Can you give me a way to contact you?"

He gave her his email-address without a second thought. He would regret it later.

"Have you talked about this with Matthew?" She asked one last thing.

Adelio hesitated. He stared at his reflection in the mirror. Wild hair, big lips, brown skin, dark eyes, manly man muscles, hairy arms and the beginning of a beard on his chin. A real beast in a bathroom. A real wolf, Matthew had said. "No." He stated.

"You might want to do so."

She hung up.

 **[I might have done some stuff I regret-.]**

Adelio took a bite of his mint chocolate ice cream and shuddered.

Brain freeze was awesome in summer.

Legs comfortably perched on an arm of a rocking chair, feet dangling, and head leaning against the wooden backrest, Adelio enjoyed his cold treat fully.

Matthew, face turned toward him, lounged lazily on the steps of the patio as he ate his second serving of maple ice cream. Adelio was on his fourth. As everything else that contained maple, Matthew eyed it seriously before slowly eating it.

His chico called that "savoring". He called that "melt-the-ice-and-eat-soup-thanks-to-my-snail's-speed". They had a bucket of that ice cream, no need to savor it for fudge's sake!

Oh, fudge ice cream. That could be good.

Besides, Coaticook was cheap (and Canadian-made!). They weren't poor to the point of not being able to buy some from time to time.

Somewhere in the fields, McMillan was singing a country song as he steered the tractor. For once in a while, he was the one working and they were the ones lazing around, eating ice cream in secret. That was life. Eating it with Matthew was better. His little chico understood silence. The cricket's symphony filled the space between them better than any small talks could.

"When will the summer end?"

Adelio stopped mid-bite. "What?"

Matthew turned around to face him. "Is it going to be so hot until September?"

Adelio licked his spoon. He contemplated going to the kitchen and getting a few more spoonful. Then he remembered Matthew's question. "...yeah. The forecast says we might even have an Indian summer until mid-September."

Matthew chewed on his spoon, eyes lost in the horizon. "Where I've lived, it was never this hot. And summer was not that long either. Mosquitoes were everywhere. There was a lot more snow in winter too. Night would fall really earlier too."

His rocking chair creaked as he shifted to see Matthew's face. A fleeting _something_ played about his eyes, something sad and raw. Adelio listened wordlessly. Matthew had never talked much about his hometown before. Not that he had either.

"The Saint Lawrence looks so big on a map. Do you think it's really that big?" Matthew changed subject, big dreamy eyes on his brother again.

The older boy bent down and flicked the younger boy's stupid stand of loopy hair that continued to stand up no matter how much Chloe persisted to brush it. "We just have to find out."

 **[I fucked up. So, so bad.]**

Her email came.

 _Kid,_

 _You were right._

 _Call me._

Adelio swore. He looked around, made sure that Matthew was not in his vicinity and then swore some more.

"Abu! Don't swear under my roof!"

Adelio stared at his door as if the force of his angry glare could push it close.

"Fuck." He whispered under his breath. He pricked his ears, yet no Chloeian screams echoed in his bedroom.

He reread the e-mail. "Fuck me."

He considered not calling. He considered forgetting once and for all what he had discovered. Alas, Adelio was weak against dreams and thoughts that told him he was ruining Matthew's possible happiness.

Adelio shamefully went to Matthew and asked for that lady boss's number again. Matthew gave it again, curiosity bright it in his eyes. Adelio said nothing and Matthew let his timidity take over his curiosity.

That time, Adelio made sure to write it down. He sent himself an e-mail with her information.

Phone in hand, he left the house. Twilight gave just enough light for him not to stumble on every pebble of the beaten path. At a good distance, he dialed her number. Too soon, the lady boss picked up her phone and asked with that grating voice of hers who was on the other side.

"It's Abe, Matthew's brother." He grated out.

"Ah, I was waiting for your call. What took you so long?" Adelio stayed silent. Something in her wheezing hinted that she knew far too well why he hadn't called her right away. He kicked a pebble away. "Nevermind. You were right. It was indeed Matthew's grandfather who assaulted Alfred Jones."

Adelio's shoulder sagged. Yeah, he had understood that much, thank you very much. "What about Alfred Jones? Is he Matthew's father? And is he-"

"I don't know." Miss Smith answered curtly to his flood of question.

"Ah." Thank god. Nobody would be able to say Adelio hadn't tried now. He had. He had tried to find Matthew's father.

Miss Smith had interpreted his sigh of joy another way. "My boy, I already overstepped my bounds." Adelio actually prayed, as in he clutched with both hands the phone in front his heart and raised his eyes to the sky, that she would say she couldn't do much more. The blackened sky was most unresponsive. "I might as well do a bit more."

Adelio kicked a pebble so lightly it flew and disappeared in a field. The sound it made when it hit the ground wasn't satisfying. "Fuck me." That was far more satisfying.

"Excuse me?" Her question sounded more like excuse-me-young-man-your-language-appalls-me.

"Nothing." Adelio quipped. "I just thought that there's nothing more to do."

"I can try to contact him." She immediately responded. "Of course, I'm not supposed to do and Matthew is supposed to wait until his 18th birthday to formally search for his parents, but it's a special case. Special case requires special treatment."

Adelio stayed silent. Special case. Special treatment. Matthew was a special kid alright now. The pin trees' heavy perfume surrounded him. He was on the edge of the wood, where the fields disappeared to let real nature take all the place. Where darkness was deep and each sound could make your heart jump.

"Abe?" Miss Smith called.

"If that guy isn't a good man, what happens?" Adelio asked. "Does he still get Matthew anyway?"

Papers and clothes rustled from her end of the call. She inhaled deeply. "We know nothing about Jones. I understand; there's never smoke without fire, but he could a lot better than what you think." She exhaled loudly. Adelio could almost smell the dirty smoke of her cigarette and he was miles away. Matthew did say she was a heavy smoker.

"Or a lot worse." Adelio countered.

"...it is a possibility, yes." She gnawed on her cig. "I'll do my best to contact him."

"No." Adelio said softly. Static silence and long drags followed his statement. He continued. "I think Matthew would be happy to do that himself."

"Hmm." _Say yes, say yes, say yes_. "I'll update you when I have a way to contact him." She accepted. Adelio almost smiled.

"Where's Matthew, by the way?" She asked and Adelio heard the characteristic sound the wheel of a lighter made. The shadow of the trees seemed just a bit darker.

Adelio looked over the fields, to the house. A big, black shadow stood up in a sea of dark fields. Dim light escaped from their bedroom's window. His chico was surely reading now.

"He's busy." Adelio said. He wasn't lying. Reading time was important for Matthew.

"Did you tell him?" Miss Smith asked, before exhaling a puff wearily.

"…Yeah. yeah. Of course." He said quickly. Too quickly.

Another loud exhalation entered and rattled his ears. He wanted to throw the phone away. Under the heady odor of the forest, Adelio smelled the scent of burned flesh. "Well, I'll send you the information as soon as I get my hands on it." Miss Smith calmly told him. On the same tone, she added, "Tell Matthew."

Three deep notes rang out. She hung up on him again. Adelio squeezed the phone until it made a satisfying cracking noise. Next time, he would be the first to hang up.

 _Next time_? Would there even be a next time? Did he have to call her again?

Adelio could keep quiet. Write her a nice e-mail explaining that Matthew didn't want to interact with his newfound biological father. Tell her he was happy and well with the Martin. That John was like a father for him and all that shitty sentimental stuff. That he could take care of Matthew alright.

Feed her a lie and live happily ever after. He had a plan. Wait until he was eighteen and then get the fuck out of there.

Or he could tell Matthew.

Perhaps it wouldn't change anything.

Maybe Matthew would not want to know or meet his father anyway. Maybe he would want to stay with Adelio.

And if he wanted to... Adelio stared at his faded scars, his stars as Matthew called them. Adelio didn't understand how somebody could find them beautiful enough to liken them to stars. They were red, uneven craters on his hairy skin. In the dark, they didn't light up. They became fucking sad purple holes.

Adelio stopped starring at them. He inhaled the forest's scent one last time before walking back. He had stayed out too long. Matthew was surely fretting over his safety and the idea that a pack of wolves that sometimes howled at the moon was near their farm.

Adelio walked just a bit quicker. He would tell his chico. He would tell him how awful a father could be.

How a simple belt could become an instrument of pain. A nightmare harbinger.

How a lit cig could burn and burn until there was nothing but pain. No tear could extinguish the fire they lit.

Then, Matthew would not want to see that bastard.

In the valley, a howl echoed, followed by many others. Adelio stopped. Matthew did say they were wolves, didn't he? Impulsively, he threw his head back and howled. He yelled and screamed until his voice was hoarse and extinguished itself.

Silence on high grasses. Wind in the hollow. The soil was holding his breath.

A cacophony of howls answered him.

He stayed outside a bit longer, basking in the moonlight.

 **[I'm a fucking coward.]**

"I'll be back soon. It's just a week." Adelio awkwardly patted his chico's shoulder. "Just a week, chico. And we're going to get back with lots of stuff!" Very tasty stuff, he added inwardly.

Matthew looked down.

Adelio scratched his scalp. "Have you ever eaten wild duck?" He asked. Food's always the answer when you don't know how to cheer up someone!

Matthew thought about the cute ducklings he had seen swimming innocently on their river. "Ducks?" He asked.

"Yup. Their meat is super tasty. Even their heart is good." Adelio's mouth watered. Fried in butter, that thing was pure heaven. And confit of duck! Damn, that thing was, like, the best discovery of men!

"Heart?" Matthew whispered faintly.

"Yup." Adelio noticed the squirrels gamboling on their patio. He pointed them with his chin. "And squirrels are good too."

Matthew blanched.

Adelio jokingly pointed at them, hands clenched around an imaginary rifle. The squirrels sent him a glare and continued their very serious game of finding good spots, hiding food and then forgetting all about the spots. "You will surely practice on them too." The teen added, remembering his first time with a forearm. John had forced him to know how to handle it perfectly before he could start to do some really fun stuff.

"Practice." Matthew repeated fatly.

"Practice shooting." Adelio clarified. Man, Matthew was deaf today. Adelio forgave him in his heart. It was the shock of seeing him leaving, he decided. In the background, John was tidying his stuff alone for once. He was arranging all of his gear on the kitchen table, according to its use, form and weight. During the trip, all of that nice set up would be mercilessly destroyed by John and the black hole he called a bag.

Chloe, contrary to usual, did not nag them to do something useful with their time. She was sipping her tea and observing her man pack from the sidelines. She took several sips before she set her cur down. Her empty cup made a clear sound against the wooden table. She disappeared in the garden. John grumbled something under his breath and started to polish his knife.

"Adelio?"

The teen blinked. "Hmm?"

Matthew pouted. "Will I have to shout animals?"

Adelio snorted at the thought of Matthew actually hurting anything other than mosquitoes. "Nha. Only if you want to, chico."

John turned toward their corner of the kitchen. "Abu, your stuff's packed?"

"Yup. You're making me wait, old man." Adelio joked. John didn't laugh. He turned back to his already polished knife and gave a few more scrubs.

Matthew whispered something to him and left the kitchen. Adelio didn't listen. John was tense. Chloe was not entirely here. Matthew looked okay. Would he still be after their little trip?

Adelio knew why John always took that week away from the farm. He knew why Chloe would sometimes sit by that young tree and caress its bark.

Once, John had planted its seed to celebrate a happy new. It had slowly pierced its stranglehold and escaped the dark soil to live and bloom and see the sunlight.

The baby inside Chloe's tummy had also escaped. To a place where no one could reach him anymore.

It was years before he got there. Chloe still wept for her baby during that time. John still thrust his hat on his head and went out to hunt in the dark, silent forest.

John, one year after Adelio's arrival, decided the then boy needed to know how to hunt. Really, Adelio understood it was because he had nimble hands and handled a knife well enough to be a good butcherer. He had still felt thankful. Like he had never been since his father had been arrested and put in jail.

Chloe was not horrible. She wasn't sweetly creepy like usual. She just wasn't there. Talk to her, she wouldn't answer. Her interlocutor was nothing more than air. Or maybe she was air herself. She did things she had to do on auto-pilot. Nothing was of importance.

The first year of his stay, the Martin's dog died.

It was old, fluffy and peaceful. No loud barks, no violent demands for caress, no bloody fangs or scratchy paws. It would gently push his wet nose against Adelio's thigh, silently asking for caress with his big, watery droopy eyes.

Adelio would oblige every time. Its fur was goddamn soft.

Two days after John's departure, it had gone to sleep on the patio during a sunny afternoon. It never woke up.

Adelio had shaken it, caressed its soft, soft fur and it still wouldn't open its big eyes and lick his fingers.

When he had gone to Chloe's side, she had told him to leave it be. John will take care of the corpse, she had said.

John was supposed to come back 5 days later.

Two days later, Adelio had dug a small hole for a big, old dog on the border of the forest. He couldn't let it rot away on the patio. He didn't want to see it rot away on the patio.

It –Chloe- wouldn't be good for Matthew.

Matthew could so, so easily slip to a place where nobody existed, not even himself. He would stare at something, nothing in particular, and leave. Adelio only knew one way to bring him back.

His chico, each time he slipped, forced him to touch. Adelio would ruffle his hair, apply his knuckles against his hard skull, flick his loopy strand of hair, tap his shoulder, take his hand and squeeze it to remind him that, yes Matthew Williams had a heartbeat and lived.

He wasn't a ghost that could go through walls and be seen-through.

Adelio should stay. He had to. He couldn't. Even if he had been on Death's threshold, John would have dragged him to their hunting spot.

The next day, Adelio and John left for their week-long hunt well before the sunrise.

Adelio liked the scent of the grass he inhaled as he laid on it. He liked the silence John would enforce in their group during the hunt. He liked the sense of victory every game he shot successfully gave him. All these likes of his helped him to endure the bite of blood-suckers (fucking little vampires), the bad weather (rain, wind and cold nights), the snickers of his fellow hunters when he missed (fuck you, you missed more than me) and stupid, stupid thoughts (was chico alright?).

He would sit on his spot, hidden and covered in plants, muscles taunt and fingers ready to pull the trigger. He was a carnivorous plant. He would lull his prey into thinking he was harmless, just a part of the scenery. He didn't move. He didn't think.

He breathed. He observed.

When, finally, what he was waiting for would appear, he would calmly move and take aim.

And his bullet would touch his target.

Some of the men moved around more than he did. Some used different weapons; a crossbow, an honest to god bow, a personalized rifle. Some specialized in traps for small games while others hunted freaking black bears. Their meat smelled bad, but heaven, it tasted awesome. It took guts too to hunt that thing though, considering it could kill you with just a slap. Same for a moose, you didn't want to go face to face with it without a loaded rifle and steady hands.

Which happened to Adelio once during the week. He had a loaded rifle, but neither license to kill it nor any idea how to do it. That thing was massive. Adelio stepped back slowly and silently left the hill where the moose was. One of the hunters punched his shoulder when he told them about his encounter. He should have shot the animal, apparently. He had wasted a good opportunity, they said. Adelio thought about the moose, peacefully browsing in its imposing glory.

Adelio punched the hunter's arm and told him to shut it. John ended the fight before it could start by calling them to butcher their games. The hunters acted cold towards him until the end of the week afterwards. That was, the two remaining days. Adelio didn't care. He wasn't there to chitchat.

He had killed quite a number of wild ducks.

John and he came back to the farm just as the sun set. He saw Matthew standing on the hill just before the house. Golden stood up in a sea of green and brown.

When they got to the house, Matthew and Chloe were on the threshold. Hair wild and out of breath, Matthew was waiting for them with a smile. Chloe was smiling too, though it was more eerie than anything else. Not as nice to look at too.

Adelio smiled wearily.

John kissed his wife on the cheek. "Kids, help clean this up."

"Yeah." Adelio waved him off tiredly. The couple disappeared inside the house, taking the boxes containing the meat with them. They let the boys with the not-so-fun task of putting all of the gears away. Matthew moved to take a heavy box, brushing against him in passing. The teen felt a bony hipbone against his thigh.

Adelio grabbed his chico. In one movement, hands under his armpits, he raised him up high in the air. Light. Too light. Matthew stared at him curiously, big eyes sunk into their sockets. Adelio smiled, tensed his muscles and threw the little boy high in the air.

Bony knees attacked his stomach when he caught his chico. Fuck. That actually hurt. His poor arms screamed and yelled. Matthew clung to his shoulders, like one would to a life preserver. Adelio did not put him down.

"Happy to see me?" He pushed his forehead against Matthew's. Purple eyes twinkled. Matthew smiled faintly and pushed back. "Yeah."

 **[You know it. I know it. I'm sorry. I wanna change. For you. For me.]**

The strawberry season ended. The tomatoes' too. Peaches and pears were still going strong though. The apple's season started. Matthew put some weight on. He told Adelio his week with Chloe had been okay. Made him think of his mother, but it had been okay. Made him cry at night, but it had been okay.

Adelio had never felt guiltier.

September and the start of the school year came back too quickly. Adelio had still not taken a decision. To tell or not tell, that was the question.

He promptly cursed the Education Act of his province when he saw his class. Why couldn't kids stop going to school after sixteen, like they did in Québec? Fucking lucky assholes. On his side, he had two more years to go and Adelio was going to suffer during at least one of those, because resident psycho shithead, Rich Stall, was in his English class. And PE, and Science and Arts.

At least, in Québec, he could have drowned his anger issues in alcohol as soon as his 18th birthday. But noooooooo, he had to wait one more year. Fucking shitty province.

Adelio had taken care of Rich last spring. He had promised to, after all. The problem was that Richie hadn't liked that much to be covered in liquid manure in front of the whole school.

Adelio was alone. Richie had all of his goons to suck his cock and do the dirty job.

Under-handed punches, kicks where it hurt like hell, putting glue and gum in his hair, destroying his stuff, Adelio had seen them do it all. He had responded in kind. It was always funny to see bullies look exactly like they were supposed to. Shitty personalities coupled with shitty faces. The worst of it was that they did all that for the shittiest reason.

It all started when he didn't let Rich win a fucking race four fucking years ago. Adelio had known that guy was the town's douchebag, but he hadn't thought he would form a grudge that would last forever because Adelio was a better runner.

What a sicko.

Rich said Adelio would never last in the Martin's. Adelio proved him wrong.

In Rich's sick mind, Adelio was the guy whose favourite pastime was thwarting Rich's plans.

Adelio liked to think he had a life, thank you very much.

But anyway, their enmity spanned through middle school and as they started high school, it seemed a truce would never happen. Rich would always remember the shame and its smell that lasted for days –the delicate odor of animals' excrements-. Adelio could forget a lot, but he would always remember his bruises and the ones Matthew borne.

Adelio eyed his teacher. A man, well over fifty, sporting a leather jacket that enhanced his beer-belly and lack of swag. Another blubbering idiot that would conveniently look elsewhere if something weird happened to Adelio.

Rich smiled at Adelio.

Adelio gave him the one-finger salute.

And thus, the summer's truce ended.

Days passed. Leaves turned yellow and red and started to fall all too soon. John went on a few more days of hunting, alone or with Adelio. Matthew cooked. Chloe listened to music. From time to time, Adelio would receive emails from the lady boss. He didn't open them anymore. Their titles told him everything. _Tell Matthew. Still haven't found it. Is Matthew okay?_

Adelio didn't use his email address as much as before. Or his laptop. Rich sent him way too much messages about how he was going to slowly skewer his negro ass on Facebook and other sites. Crazy bastard. School was okay. Uninteresting and tiring, but that wasn't new.

Matthew didn't talk of his school with him. From what he had seen though, his teacher didn't seem to be a dickhead. He thought having a mullet was cool though. His classmates left him alone. Adelio loomed too much behind Matthew every day for them to think he was an easy prey.

Or someone they could befriend.

Adelio was not a sharer. Sorry, not sorry.

He could and would break their nose if they made a move. And then dare them to say they hadn't slipped and hurt themselves _all on their own._

He was the only one allowed to tease Matthew. Lightly. Very lightly. The other kids could certainly find a playmate or a target elsewhere. They could have stupid friends and he would keep his little roommate safe and sound.

Adelio lifted a spoon. Matthew squinted. "...Cuchillo?"

"Chico, that's a spoon, not a knife."

Matthew squinted, lips twisted in thought. "Una… cuchara?"

The teen nodded. He threw the spoon away on a pile of something. Clothes, books, food, all the stuff Adelio didn't care to throw away. "Yup. What is it in French?"

"Une cuillère." The boy piped up, accent changing to voice silky French words.

Adelio repeated the word softly. His accent was not as half-baked as Matthew's in Spanish. "If we continue like that, I might get a better grade in French." He noted, just a tiny bit happy. Soon, maybe they could actually talk in French or Spanish at home.

Chloe would not be able to post herself near their door and listen to their conversations anymore like the creepy stalker she was. He didn't count on school to help him learn French.

His French teacher didn't really talk French. He jabbered through their classes and made them listen to English movies with French subtitles. Their grade depended entirely on the homeworks he gave them from time to time. Everybody knew he paid someone from Québec who graded their stuff for him. He would also randomly give and take points, just for shit and giggles.

He was also most likely licking Rich's asshole on his free time. Adelio had lost 5 points because he breathed too loudly during class. What the fuck, teach'.

And that's why Adelio knew how to insult someone in French (they had a wonderful way of expressing their discontentment!), but had no idea how its syntax worked.

He twirled on his chair before looking down at his exercise. The teen lost his smile. Nope. He would not speak French. Not in that life, it seemed. Well, at least he had tried. Matthew glanced at Adelio –who looked quite dead inside- then at the directives -written in French-. "You need to write a review." He informed Adelio softly.

Adelio's lips twitched. Yeah, he had understood that bit.

"About a book you read." Matthew said helpfully.

Adelio thought about the last book he read. _Brave New World_ was a jolly ride that finished in a quite nice scene. Not.

If Matthew hadn't been there, Adelio would have happily ranted about the main character, the savage, and his last decision. But he was there, so Adelio glanced at their tiny library and the colorful spines of their books. He selected the last book Matthew read, _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory._ His chico was overly fond of Roald Dahl. _James and the Giant Peach, Matilda, The Witches_ and then _Charlie_... He had skimmed through it, just to please his little roommate.

Adelio started to type with a sigh. What a pain in the ass. He looked very hard at his screen, obviously not seeing his chico hovering over his shoulder and certainly not hearing him correct his spelling, syntax and whisper French idioms to replace his badly translated English ones.

Adelio lips twitched upwards.

He would get that good grade.

 **[So I will. It will hurt and maybe I won't succeed, but Goddamn it- you deserve so much better than me.]**

The lady boss sent him another e-mail. He looked over his shoulder. No Matthew on the horizon. He didn't open it. Its title told him everything: _Tell Matthew_.

A second one arrived a few days later. That one was titled _Found what you asked_.

The last one appeared an instant after the second. _You cannot do this to him._

Adelio snorted. He very well could. He should too. Matthew was his responsibility. That boy wouldn't survive without him. Look at him, so thin, so defenseless in front of the world. He was so, so small. The world would gulp him down as if he was a tiny strawberry. So what if he kept Matthew in the dark? So what if he kept him by his side? It wasn't like he was an absolute monster. He would take care of him and Matthew wouldn't die.

It wasn't because he hadn't succeeded before that he couldn't succeed now.

…Yeah.

Damn that woman. She knew how to guilt trip people perfectly.

Adelio really wished Chloe had never bought him a laptop. Way more trouble than he needed in his life. Just for the heck of it, he googled 'How to tell my bro I found his biological father?".

He found a lot of stories. Kids who accidentally discovered that their 'dad' wasn't really their father. Parents asking for help in forums, not sure how to approach the subject or if the subject had to be approached at all. Angry kids, sad parents. Sad kids, angry parents. Rejection stories. Happily-reunited-family stories. People that wanted to know, but at the same time, didn't.

Internet did not help. He turned off his laptop.


	6. One crazy bunny

Voices escaped a brightly lit room, went round and round in circles before the first step of the stairs, hesitantly climbed up in the twilight, happily played with the dust and flew around a head full of bushy hair. "Chloe, it's just a visit to the shrink. He already passed the tests before. They just do it for form. The boy doesn't need a doc."

Adelio was sitting on the stairs, elbows against knees, head between palms.

"And what if she says Matthew needs help?"

"Then he leaves." His voice sounded too much like the noise an axe made when it splinted a log in two. A final decision.

"...I wanted to keep him." Chloe's voice balked. Adelio sighed and rubbed his face.

"Chloe-" John's tone changed, going from steel cold to warm coax. Adelio left his spot, gangly limbs quietly unwinding. In the dark, he made his way to the bathroom, flushed the toilet and went to their bedroom.

Matthew was sleeping or was, for once, a good actor.

The bed creaked under his weight.

Adelio did not sleep well.

 **[Hey, tell me.]**

The school day was over, thanks God, and Matthew was merrily making his way back home, devising a plan to make his class suffer if they had to hear again about division and percent. 25x4=100 and 100÷4=25! Wasn't it easy to understand? He had understood after the 3rd explanation and the teacher was on its 7th. Couldn't they spend more time coloring or learning about the World map? That had the benefit of being interesting-

He slipped. His feet met air. Stomach went up and down.

Matthew almost flattened his face against the ground in one graceless move. His knees and hands took the hit. "Fudge!" He got up. The ground was hard under his shoes.

November had firmly planted its root in the countryside. Cold winds stung his face, infiltrated his coat and licked his neck and belly until he shivered. The first snow came and went. It was washed away by the sleet and made the ground slippy with patches of thin ice there and here. Before the start of school, Chloe had bought some things for him. Second-hand shoes that fit his feet, some loose clothes and a few notebooks. Matthew had thanked her profusely. Adelio had sniffed and told him she just didn't want to appear poor in front of the other parents. Even by their town's standard, letting a boy run barefooted in autumn was a bit much.

Matthew still happily ran and fell around with them. His new shoes were grey-ish, not exactly waterproof and one was not encouraged to put his nose near them, but they were almost comfortable.

As usual, Adelio was waiting for him at the end of the main street and so had thankfully not seen his shameful unCanadian display. Only kiddos and elders had the right to slip on ice. The road was named "Main" because, well, that was the only road of the village. Houses peppered its side, as far away from each other as possible, except near the old church. They clustered around the small, brightly painted building. The bell tolled five times. Darkness was falling rapidly.

"Chico, I won't wait for you foreva'." The teen interrupted Matthew's thoughts with his call.

Matthew jumped over a large sheet of ice, glided with the grace of a duckling walking on the ground and ended his race with his nose flattened against a hard stomach.

The boy looked up with his best smile. "Hi."

Adelio didn't smile back. The teen pushed the boy away and righted him. "Let's go." He had already moved forward, shoes stepping where road salt had been thrown to melt the ice.

Matthew followed suit, skipping forward to catch him up. Adelio said nothing more. The boy stayed silent, cowed by his brother's unnatural behavior. The rest of their walk was silent.

They split up in front of the kitchen's door. They rarely used the front door. Adelio tugged his loopy lock softly. "I need to go help John. Go do your homies. Chloe will ask you to help with dinner."

Matthew nodded. "Okay. See ya."

The boy entered alone. He removed his shoes, slipped through the kitchen, glided in the hallway, trudged the stairs, tip-toed on the floor and found himself in their bedroom.

Yes. He half-heartedly raised his fists. Another day where Chloe hadn't noticed his arrival. Another victory then. Matthew=41. Chloe= 5. At 50th, he would bake himself a pudding chômeur. A freaking cake swimming in maple syrup, was there anything better than that? Matthew knew the answer. No, there was nothing better.

Except Adelio's hugs. He was so warm and huge. Every time Adelio was in a good enough mood to hug, the boy felt as if he was in a big hairy bear's embrace. Adelio was so warm (sometimes Matthew had to stop and pinch himself to believe he wasn't dreaming). He had even extorted John's promise. Next year, their host would bring both of them to the hunting trip.

He wouldn't need to stay alone with Chloe anymore. Alone with himself. _It_ had started at that moment. He would stay in his bed for hours, crouched in a fetal position, gently rocking. Back and forth. Back. And. Forth.

No thought wandered his skull. The boy was just there. Then Matthew would wake up. See the rain falling outside. Notice he was cold. Hear the grumbles of his aching stomach. And remember Chloe terrified him.

During that horrible week, Chloe had the same routine every day. Fix a small breakfast that would last her all day, and then sit up in her couch and watch the outside with unblinking eyes.

She looked dead. Matthew had touched and seen a corpse body before. He knew what it felt like.

Goosebumps appeared on his arms with that thought. He missed his mother.

He remembered one memorable time, before his mother and he moved in that tiny town in the middle of nowhere. His mother had taken him outside. They had played together. Mother and son had made piles of crunchy leaves and fell on them together. The leaves flew everywhere and the sky would smell of moss and be red and yellow. His mother had had moments where she had been an awesome mom.

Adelio would have snorted at Matthew's thought. He could hear his gruff tone; _She still left in the end and it's the end that counts._ That could be true. But he had had one mom and Chloe would never be her. It was as possible as winter without snow or spring without slush.

Chloe liked to ramble about everything and anything. From the sparrow she had found dead in the bushes to their neighbor's new cat. She also asked questions to the men of the family, but she had the interesting habit of answering for them before they could open their mouth.

His mother had liked silence better.

Sometimes, Adelio's left leg would go up and down nervously as he grinned at his host. Death was a subject that appeared too often in her monologues.

The young boy was stronger than the adult though. He had found a way to stop whatever took over him in those weird moments where rocking back and forth seemed like the best thing to do.

Matthew crawled into his bed. His hand found a notebook and a pen under his pillow. In it, he wrote things that happened during the day. Adelio had laughed at his diary. It wasn't one though. Matthew just wrote his thoughts and things he found interesting there. It kept the bad moments away.

Like: _Adelio is weird now._ Written in bold, red capital letter because that was important.

 _1st Reason: My cooking is bad, so he's sick._

Matthew wasn't blind. Sometimes, the stuff he baked weren't exactly good. Or the right colour. Yesterday, the sausages had been a bit too black. Adelio had forced them down his throat anyway. Maybe his stomach ached and that put him in a bad mood? The boy put a big red star next to that reason. He would need to investigate.

Matthew scratched his temple with the butt of his pen. What else? Ah! With application, he slowly wrote a second reason in cursive. He had to practice it; his teacher told him it was unreadable. He could read it just fine though. Maybe the teach' needed a new pair of glasses.

 _2nd Reason: Puberty? (***Need to ask John or Chloe.)_

He had heard Chloe and John talking about Adelio's snappy mood. Well, more Chloe than John. Chloe had called it a phase and John had shrugged it off. McMillan, a few days later, said it was the hormones wreaking Adelio's head. He even handed Adelio a magazine. With a toothy grin, he told him to have a sweet time and to not dirty it too much. He wanted it back when Adelio would be satisfied.

Satisfied with what, Matthew had no idea. Was the magazine that interesting?

Anyway. Adelio had blushed, sputtered, and cursed a storm. His face went through a disarray of interesting colours which drew Matthew's curious eyes. McMillan was slapped by his own "filthy" book.

Matthew learnt a lot of new insults. He also learnt new Spanish words. He had asked why Adelio had been so angry, but the older teen could only shake his head helplessly.

After a lot of pestering, the teen told the boy it was because McMillan was a dirty idiot. Matthew had nodded; McMillan did smell bad after work. He hadn't discovered the wonders of deodorant yet.

When he had heard Matthew's opinion, Adelio had laughed and pinched his nose. "You know you're too precious for this world, right? I gotta keep you pure, little bunny."

"I'm not a bunny, I'm a wolf."

Adelio could be weird sometimes.

In the end, Adelio did not have any dessert that night. McMillan decided the blown had been lethal and if he didn't die from it, he sure did want a day off. John had been mad, but he had accepted anyway.

 _3rd Reason: Needs more food?_

Adelio was a growing teen. He needed the extra ca-lo-ry (ies?). Next time they would share chocolate, Matthew decided he would only take one square. Even if it was orange dark chocolate.

Adelio chose that moment of pure emotion and sacrifice to enter their bedroom. He closed the door softly behind him and threw him bag on the ground. Adelio sat heavily on his bunk. Matthew tentatively stretched his neck over the edge of his bed to look under.

The teen was listless, shoulders naturally hunched so he wouldn't his head against the higher bunk. He scratched his cheek and pushed his hair out of his face. Matthew's arm, then shoulder and then his entire torso dangled out until his fingers found coarse hair. The hard edge sank into his waist.

"Chico." Adelio looked unimpressed by Matthew's acrobatics. They weren't quite face to face, but almost. Adelio could have pulled him to the ground with a good tug. Matthew stopped pulling frizzy hair. His grin showed all of his teeth. "Hullo, bro."

Adelio snorted and patted his mattress. "Come down, you monkey."

Matthew hummed happily, because that was his real bro. Not the taciturn block he saw before. He crawled out of his bunk and skidded down the ladder. His body hit the mattress. "What's new?"

Adelio stretched his arms. "We're eating fajitas tonight." He answered tiredly.

Matthew copied him. "Ohh. Nice." He sighed contentedly. Cheesy fajitas, spicy fajitas~.

Adelio pinched his waist, eliciting a half-scream, half-laugh. "Don't drool on my bed." He massaged his nape. "I heard them talking a few nights ago."

Matthew stopped dreaming (drooling) about his dinner. "'Bout what?" He asked, sitting up straight. John and Chloe never talked with them of the important stuff, so the children spied on them from time to time to know what to do and what to say to not get kicked out. It was a very healthy and necessary curiosity.

"You need to pass a test. It's just, a talk with a doc'." Adelio waved his hand once, as if that movement explained everything.

Matthew tilted his head. "But I'm not sick."

Adelio's eyes met Matthew's. "I know you're not. It's a psychologist." Adelio tapped his temple. "A doctor for the mind."

Matthew frowned, thin eyebrow knitted together in lack of understanding. "Why would I need one?"

Adelio let himself fall on the soft mattress and stretched his legs out. He sighed, closed his eyes and tried to find the right words. They were hard to find. He went on his side with a grunt, head against knuckles to see his boy.

"Well, you see, we went through some rough stuff." _Your mother, my father, the rest of the world._ "People like us don't always live well through the hard stuff. Psys are for those people." Matthew said nothing. Adelio wanted to smooth that frown, but nothing felt right.

"They're like a band-aid for the mind." Adelio's head pushed against his knuckles. _Real smooth, you retard._ Matthew smiled. _Okay, not that bad, you retard._

"Did you see one before?" Matthew asked softly, hands gripping his pants.

Adelio touched his small hands and eased them gently. He kept them in his hand. "Yeah. I'm pretty sure you met one before coming here too. You just didn't know it."

"What's going to happen if I need band-aids?" Matthew worried.

Adelio pulled him down. Matthew let him push down until they sprawled together on the tiny bunk, staring at a wooden ceiling. Matthew noticed some scrawny words on the corner. _Clara was here! 2000-2001._ Next to it, bolder and bigger, Adelio had left his own mark in black lettering. _Adelio is here to stay! 2012-present._

Adelio spoke again, this time breathing in Matthew's ear. "If that doctor thinks you need help, they will put you somewhere else. A place for kids with special needs."

Matthew's gaze left the bold lettering. "Who're they?"

Adelio shrugged. "The government. The psy. People." _People in an office, comfortably seated behind a nice desk, writing on a report where you need to be deported._

"I can't decide where I want to be?" It didn't sound like a question. It wasn't one either. Matthew knew. He wouldn't have ended with the Martin if he could have said to the judge where he wanted to be and be listened to.

Adelio sniffed. He moistened his dry lips. "Nha. We're too young for that."

Too young to understand, too old to be adopted, too special to be normal, too problematic to live a normal, satisfying life... they were in too many cases to remember all of them. Just upholding the title of orphan made breathing difficult. People gave them titles, named their shortcomings with complicated names, put them in statistics and waited for them to do exactly what they were supposed to be. Society's trash.

Adelio sighed deeply. Matthew wiggled until they were head-to-neck. He used the older boy's shoulder as a pillow. "Where do they put special kids?"

"Families with other special kids. Centers. Weird places. Trust me, you don't want to end up there. I spent a few months in and out of those. It wasn't really nice. We all did stupid shit." Adelio clamed up in the end. He was not going to talk about that. Matthew was seriously too young. Innocence was supposed to be protected, not pricked with drug's stories and disfigured by violent acts.

The boys stayed silent for a while. The older was immured in memories and the younger had noticed. He was polishing his shovel to destroy those walls.

The boy read the inscriptions on the bed one last time. _Be bold to survive_ , it whispered to him. "Adelio." He called softly.

Adelio blinked before craning his neck to look at the boy at his side. "What?"

"I thought we were already special kids." Matthew whispered their secret, purple eyes twinkling in amusement.

Adelio laughed. He nodded jerkily and ruffled golden hair. "Kids twice as crazy as us then."

 **[Am I insane?]**

His pen moved aimlessly on the page. _Fear, sheer, peer, we're, clear, unclear, tear, sincere, mutineer._

 _Why do people die?_

The shrink should know that. Apparently, these people knew a lot of things. So much that they could decide where he would be the happiest, and they could do that without actually asking him.

 _Do degrees give superpowers?_

That was a good question. Why could someone with a degree decide his fate? What gave them the power to write that he was sane or that he had a lot of problems he didn't know existed?

Plus, he had noticed that, for some reasons, his classmates were more interested in their teacher than their janitor. Denise was way nicer and always had interesting things to say though. David Goudreault was her favorite French Canadian author/ slam poet and she made awesome chocolate chips cookies. Matthew could testify ( _cross my heart and hope to die_!). Their exterior was crunchy and the middle _melted_ in his mouth. One day, he would get her recipe. Soon. Adelio would like them.

 _Am I weird?_ He didn't want to end up in another family. He didn't want to live the rest of his days in an asylum for cray-cray people.

 _Why are people insane?_ That was a good question. Did the pain push people somewhere others couldn't find?

He reviewed his other questions.

 _Why does slavery exist?_

 _Why do parents leave their children?_

 _Where do people go when they die?_

 _Why do people use things that hurt them?_

Matthew chewed his lips. Were his questions too weird? He had promised Adelio he wouldn't ask weird questions. Adelio had rehearsed with him what questions he would be asked, what he would answer and how he would say it every single day. And after each practice, Adelio simply grew more restless, researched more and forced them to do it all over again. He didn't show it, but he was really worried. Matthew was not. He wasn't insane and he didn't need any band-aid.

He was not stupid. Something else was bothering Adelio. It wasn't the food. His baked apple-maple filet mignon had been a hit. His pancakes were as nice as Chloe's. He left him all their chocolate.

Sure, he asked Adelio to cut the meat and fish, but it was all cold and sticky and smelly and ugh- So not nice to touch.

If it wasn't the visit to the shrink or the lack of food, what was it? Puberty? The thing that made him all furry? How could he stop puberty then?

He wrote that question in his notebook. It wasn't that weird. Maybe he could ask that one.

"Matthew! Time's to go!" Chloe called him.

He hid his notebook under his pillow and got up with a sigh.

One quick ride later, he found himself sitting on a plushy couch. The shrink was sitting next to him and smiling amiably. He immediately abandoned the idea of asking her anything interesting. There was more hair out of her ponytail than in. Her clothes were rumpled and mostly black. Dark rings and thick glasses decorated her eyes. She looked crazier then he felt.

"Hello, Matthew." She looked older when she smiled. Wrinkles appeared around her eyes and mouth. "I'm Shannon."

"Hello, Miss Shannon." His smile showed all of his teeth. _Be happy. Be upbeat. Be polite._

"How are old are you?" It was clearly written in bold letter in the vanilla folder laying just in front of them. He answered anyway. "8 years old, miss."

"So you're in third grade?" At his nod, she continued. "And how's school?"

 _Good. My teacher doesn't care. My classmates don't care. If they could understand that Québec is the capital of Québec, I would like them better._ "It's interesting. I learn a lot of new things every day. We learnt all the capitals of the provinces yesterday!" He forced himself to look motivated.

The psy hummed. "What's the capital of Ontario?" She asked with her brows raised in clear challenge of his long term memory.

"Ottawa!" His answer was automatic.

She nodded and even more hair left her ponytail. "And Manitoba's?"

Matthew tilted his head. He knew the answer, but he looked around the room before he told her. Beside the couch, there was a desk and a shiny frame that told everybody she was a real shrink. Her university could testify. "Winnipeg."

She chuckled and patted his shoulder. "Pretty good."

A block note magically appeared in Miss Shannon's hand and she wrote a few unreadable words. Maybe it was for secrecy. Maybe her handwriting was that bad. "And at home, how do you feel?" She asked, unnerving brown eyes staring deeply in calm ones.

Words were already on the tip of his tongue, ready to be used and misused. _I'm happy. I miss my mom; I wish she were here. Chloe, John and Adelio are nice. I'm better than I was before._

Matthew smiled and turned himself a bit more towards her. "Home's super nice. John shows me around the farm and teaches me how of take care of plants- I have my own plants I need to take care of! And Chloe reads books with me. Adelio takes good care of me." He said all that in one breath.

"Adelio... I never had the chance to meet him, but I heard a lot about him from the other children who lived with him." She trailed off, still smiling gently, as if she waited for him to take the bait and explain how much he was abused and sad with Adelio. _Sorry miss, you're pointing fingers at the wrong person._

"He's really good bro. He always shares his snacks with me. But he smells bad after his workout." _Sorry Adelio._

She chuckled. "Really? How nice."

She got up. "You like snacks, Matthew?"

"Yeah!" That was not a lie. He liked eating when other people where observing him. He liked eating when Adelio showed that special smile that promised he would steal his food if Matthew didn't take it right now. The boy watched his psychologist walk to her desk. A white plate appeared in her.

She raised and wiggled it. "Want some raisins?"

It wasn't the sort he was used to. In the farm, they had small raisins with thick violet skin that tasted like rose, sour green flesh and big pips. Everybody had a way to eat it. Some disliked the skin and pressed on it so the flesh would break free. Some ate it whole, but spitted the skin and pips out.

The big ass green raisins she offered were tasteless next to them. He said yes and took several anyway. He had to try and hide his smile one way or another. When she had sat again, she had put a plate of raisins and a tissue box on the table in front of him. A tissue box. So close he could easily take one to dry his special's kid's eyes.

Matthew picked up the plate and offered it to Miss Shannon. "Do you want some?"

"No, thank you." She twirled her pen around, eyes trained on her notes. "Now, Matthew, on a scale of 1 to 10, how do you feel most days?"

Matthew hesitated. He couldn't choose a too big number or a too small one. One and ten were out of the question. "Six, I guess."

Shannon jotted it down. "Why six?" She asked calmly.

She wanted him to talk about his mother. Matthew hesitated and she smiled a smile full of lipstick. It was as encouraging as urging. "Life's in the farm's alright, but- I miss my mom. When I found her-" Something strangled his voice between his throat and his teeth. It made a weird noise before dying.

"I couldn't understand what was going on. I-I... thought she would wake up."

Shannon innocently nudged the tissue box toward him with her foot. His blurred gaze saw the clock on the wall. The big hand was slowly ticking toward the 12.

 _Only 15 minutes to go._

 **[I am not.]**

John silently drove them back. His silence tasted like victory. Matthew knew he had won. The evil psy would not move him in another family or put him in a youth center.

Chloe was waiting for them in the living room, her eternal cup of tea by her side.

"The doc wants to see Matthew a few more times, but-" John waved his hand, a movement that said everything that could be communicated. _Matthew is not going anywhere._ Adelio appeared in the living room, face's tense. The boy beamed at him. Adelio didn't smile back, but his dropped shoulders seemed less strained. Chloe sighed happily. "Good, very good." She tucked back Matthew's crazy loop. "You were nice with the doctor, right? Of course, you're so polite."

She pushed Matthew toward Adelio. "Dinner's rice noodle with broccoli. Go wash up before we eat."

Broccoli cooked on the pan with a tiny bit of ginger and a dash of water and soya sauce, coupled with tasty rice noodle. The best and only way to make that veggie into something eatable. Matthew would have drooled, but his captain awaited his report. He obediently went up and followed Adelio into their room. Mickael Jackson was singing his iconic " _All I wanna say is that they don't really care about us_ ". The teen closed the door and his laptop. The music stopped. They looked at each other.

"I'm staying here." Matthew announced, proud as any child who just fooled his shrink or any authority figures would be.

Adelio flicked his loopy lock. "You're not the one who decides."

Matthew avoided another flick and shrugged. "I know. But Shannon won't send me in another family. She believes I need a good and loving environment more than I do a shrink." The irony of his words was not lost on him.

Adelio stopped his attacks. "You sure?" He asked, voice strained.

Matthew caught his bro's unmoving hand and gave it a squeeze. "Yeah. I heard her talk with John." He whispered, because they were dangerously close to the door and the walls of the house were not exactly soundproof. Adelio's mouth twisted. "How well behaved." His tone dripped with irony. They both remembered how Chloe always claimed that the younger boy was the "good boy" of the duo.

Matthew pinched the offending boy. "Shut up, you. They talked loudly."

"She could change her mind." Adelio squeezed Matthew's before the boy could speak up again. "Chico, listen to me. These people always change their mind."

Matthew shook. Adelio's hand was bizarrely cold in his. What were they going to do then? Wait for the final situation and plan around it?

"There might..." the teen trailed off. He let go of Matthew's hand with one last squeeze. He rummaged in his desk/heap of stuff/hidden treasure chest. Matthew sat on the chair of the desk.

Matthew inclined himself towards the front. Objects of all sorts went over his head and fell to the ground haphazardly. "What cha searching for?" The boy asked, avoiding all the last second a pair of boxers that smelled funny.

"This." Adelio pressed a sheet against Matthew's face. The boy batted the offending hand away. Another tanned hand went and pressed the sheet on his forehead.

"Meanie." Adelio looked absolutely unimpressed with his choice of insult.

Blind tickles and punches freed the boy from his paper prison. A photograph. The black and white picture showed a man in a nice suit. A celebrity?

"That's Alfred Jones. Richtard extraordinary." Adelio presented, before sitting on his bunk.

Matthew blinked. What did a celebrity have to do with their problem? "Did he do something illegal?"

Adelio stilled. "No, no." He said quickly and then he laughed. Then he stopped. "Well, actually, I don't know."

The older boy opened his laptop on his bunk. He raised his hand before Matthew could ask a million questions. "Let me check again. Wait a sec."

Matthew frowned. Adelio was weird again. He stared at the photo in his hands. An aesthetically pleasing face, a nice suit, white teeth, in brief the kind of man he had only ever seen on TV. Why was he important? Adelio needed help to do a project in French about him? He was a renowned cook? Adelio wanted him to try and cook some of his recipes?

Adelio closed his laptop with a grunt. "Ok. He did nothing bad apparently." He announced.

"So?" Matthew raised his eyebrows. _Who's he?_

Adelio grimaced. Matthew had the time to fold the paper into a plane. When he was done, he threw it toward Adelio. It sadly landed on the floor. Adelio still wasn't talking. "Why did you show me his face? Is he someone important? You don't like girls anymore?" The boy asked, mouth running faster than his mind.

The boy narrowly escaped the horrible future of having radioactive boxers thrown to his face for his last question. "He is your father, Matthew."

"...what?" Said the mouse.

Adelio turned his face sideway and scratched his nape. "You heard me."

"...what?" Said the little boy.

"Well, okay, okay, I think he is. Not sure. Your grampa met him, told me he could be, and then your Miss Smith found his address." Or something like that. Adelio felt queasy, but what could possibly say? _Hey, you crazy grampa probably tried to kill your dad_. Nope. Bad idea. Freaking bad idea. It was a worse idea than wearing real tight pants on a hot and humid day. Having his balls crushed and liquefied was such a nice feeling.

Matthew stayed silent. He left his seat and took back his lonely plane on the floor. He unfolded it carefully. Inside resided a face that could explain where 50% of his genes came from. A mouth that could tell where his father had been during 8 years. Hands that could soothe away the tears. Eyes that could look at him like he wasn't trash abandoned on a lonely road.

Adelio cleared his throat. "Mattie." He took his brother's hand and led him to his bunk. Matthew sat down, holding on a fibrous and crumpled face.

The teen chewed on his lips before he offered a grimaced smile. "I, I never really told ya about my father, did I?" His voice sounded weird in Matthew's ears. Not enough gruff and too much fragility.

Adelio breathed in deeply. "I dunno where my father is now. In a prison, somewhere, serving his time. He did some pretty bad stuff to get there. And my mom, she left a long time before the social crooks took me." It all left him in one breath. His eyes were everywhere but on his brother.

Matthew held his hand.

"Anyway." He repeated the word twice under his breath, as if it was a spell that would help the words get out. It did. "He beat me. You know, he really thought he was a good dad. His father had been way worse with him. He thought what he did was better. He thought he was a better dad." Adelio sniffed and blinked.

Matthew didn't know what to do. Hug? Kiss? Tell him nobody would hurt him ever again because he had pint size protector now? Adelio's gaze went back to the lovely boy on his bed and he crushed the hand that held his. "I don't want you to think that your father will be the best guy you'll ever meet. He might be the worst. Or just so-so."

The boy stayed silent. He couldn't wiggle his fingers free. It hurt. His gaze went from their hands to the face of his dream, to kind, strong, crying-but-not-quite Adelio. No tears had fallen from his bleary eyes. Yet. "Okay. I understand." He said quickly. _A bit._

Adelio realized he was gripping their hand together a bit too hard. He let go with a wet cough. The teen discreetly dried his wet eyes. Some dust had entered them. They really needed to wash their bedroom. Dust could really hurt. "What are you gonna do if he's your real dad?"

"...I don't know." Matthew knew the stars that peppered Adelio's skin, the uneven scars on his back and the red rashes on his thighs. Did he want the same? No. Did he want to know who his father was? Yes. It was still better to know where you came from to not be it than just have a void and become one yourself.

"You could knee him between the legs." Adelio joked with serious eyes and clenched fists.

Matthew blinked. Then he nodded. "Okay."

And that was it. The younger brother went in search of tissues for a runny nose. The older brother ruminated all he had said and couldn't say and came to the conclusion that he would never be anything close to a good speaker.

When the moon, cloaked in a thick blanket, shone distantly and all the eyes of the house were closing themselves in an effort to sleep, Matthew slipped the picture of Alfred Jones in his notebook.

 **[Hey, what's worse. Intentional or unintentional abandonment?]**

Matthew rocked back and forth on his bed. His loopy lock of hair kissed the ceiling with each of his swing. His notebook laid open before him, abandoned. The mattress creaked under him rhythmically. One, two, three, four. Back and forth.

He couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't do. Anything.

Except hug his knees and rock.

One, two. The red walls closed in. One, two, three, four, five, six. They opened their bloody mouth. One, two, three, ready to devour him whole.

Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs. Matthew stopped rocking. He couldn't bear to do that in front of Adelio. His bro was trying so hard. The walls slowly retracted their bloody teeth.

The sounds went to the bathroom.

A picture was peeking out from his open notebook. A blonde man who looked like him (rhetorically, Matthew looked like him and not the other way if they were related). Adelio claimed they had the same face. Was that man the source of his dimple? The reason why he wasn't supple at all? Was he the reason Matthew had no tree, was just a severed branch abandoned in the middle of nowhere?

Mister Alfred Jones. _Alfred_. It was an old name. It sounded old. The type of name an old British butler would bear with honor. Certainly not the type a nouveau rich man and big lead of the American fashion industry would flaunt around.

Mister Jones then. _Jones_. The only picture that came to his mind was a cowboy, proudly disappearing into the sunset of the Far West with his dusty horse. One of his hands always hovered near his rifle, ready to fire at bandits and highwaymen with the efficiency of a soldier. He had indeed the past of one, but he left the army, dejected by the flawed system and tainted values of his officers. He had left a beloved woman, up in the north, in search of his father's killer. What he didn't know, was that the woman was heavy with his child-

 _Stop_. He closed his notebook.

Alfred Jones was certainly not a butler or a cowboy. He wasn't even his father. He didn't know Matthew existed. Or maybe he did. The boy couldn't decide which was worse.

His potential father was like his grampa. The father of his mother who refused to take his grandson in but found his father for him. The whole thing sounded so weird. So crazy. Adelio had promised it wasn't a joke. Matthew believed him with all his heart and head, yet… something, somewhere between his feet and his loopy loop, throbbed and sounded the death knell.

Yet, he had Alfred Jones's address, thanks to Miss Smith's help. Miss Smith had always been truthful, even when it hurt. Adelio wouldn't lie to him either.

Matthew only needed to write a letter to find out if Alfred Jones and Matthew William were genetically close. Writing was pretty much the only thing he wasn't bad at, wasn't it?

A crazy plan had already been put in place to help him. In two weeks, John and Chloe would go to a party. He was supposed to go with them to be showed around. But the couple wouldn't be able to, because Matthew was going to be sick.

The closest post office was in another village. A 45 minutes walk at a quick pace or a 15 minutes ride. Miss Smith worked in Toronto now. Her hometurf was here, and she had easily taken a day off to drive him.

Adelio claimed it was a good idea, just in case something happened with the shrink and she changed her mind about his stay with the Martin. His mouth was strangely twisted when he said that. Miss Smith had assured him it would be a good just to try.

Matthew chewed his lips and hoped the red walls would let him be.

 **[one, two, three, ready, start!]**

Matthew coughed dryly. A piece of something (shepherd's pie?) was stuck in his throat. It tasted as rancid as the rest of his vomit had when it left his body.

Chloe patted his shoulder and gave him a glass full of water. The pill inside was dissolving quickly, making tiny bubbles of air. "Drink that and try to sleep. You'll be on your feet tomorrow."

He nodded to thin air; she had already left his side. John and Adelio hovered on the hallway, waiting. John had his ankle boots on, ready to fight the cold. Adelio had stuffed his hands in his pockets, seeming completely indifferent to the situation. "You're sure you don't want to come?" Chloe's voice made Matthew's eardrums tingle all the way from the hallway. He sank into the recliner, cool glass in hands.

"Yeah. I've got stuff to do." Adelio answered.

"Such a pity." Chloe commented. She reappeared in Matthew's vision. She kissed Adelio's hair. "Don't kill Matthew while we're not looking. And don't burn the house down. See you guys!"

The next second, the couple was out. Their car hooted before they left the farm.

"Well, that was easy." The teen noted.

"Speak for yourself." Matthew coughed again. That damn evil piece of food really liked his throat too much. He gulped the water and spat out the pill. It tasted disgusting.

Adelio took his glass away. "That lady should be here soon. You ready?"

Matthew pointed his bag with a small movement of his chin, sitting at the foot of the stairs. "Yeah. Everything's in my bag."

A car honked outside the house. Miss Smith was here, exactly on time. Matthew left the living room in a hurry and put on his coat and boots. Adelio threw him his bag. As the fair-haired boy opened the door, Adelio tugged his hair. "Come back quick." He gruffed out.

The boy smiled, stomach queasy but heart appeased. "Sure."

The cold hit his face. In the dark, a blue car stood still before the front door. There she was, his Miss Smith, an unlit cig between her teeth and perpetual frown on place, sitting in her car. Here he was, backpack in hands, boots crunching snow, as tiny as before. It seemed they had never separated.

"Hello, Miss Smith." Matthew tried to be bright when he greeted her after opening the side door. She grouched a "it's been a while" out in response. The boy settled down. His backpack ended up on his knees. He buckled up.

"Ready?" She asked, hand ready to turn the key.

The boy nodded. The ignition started with a grumble and off they went.

"Did you eat?" Miss Smith's tone was even when she asked her question. As if she often helped kids find their biological parents without their hosts' permission. Maybe she did. Matthew jumped anyway at the sudden talk.

"No." _I threw up. I wasn't faking._ His eyes stayed on the poorly lit road. It would be stupid to have an accident. And so profoundly dangerous for their health and his continuous stay at the Martin's.

Miss Smith turned the radio on to fill their silence. Matthew didn't know what to say. _Thank you? How are you after all this time? Did you know the Martin were a bit off their hooker? Did you miss me?_ "After you're done, why don't we get some Timmy's?" She suddenly asked.

Matthew hesitated. Adelio had said to come back quick. John and Chloe could come back sooner than expected. In the end, he agreed. "Can I take the wedges?"

Miss Smith chuckled and put away her gnawed cig. "Of course. With a cup of hot chocolate?"

She remembered his favorite. That made his stomach flutter and his mouth grin. "Yeah!"

Just as the temperature in the car warmed, they arrived in front of the post office. Miss Smith let him go alone. With a slow heart and numb legs, he found himself paying for the last item needed to complete his quest. 7,20$ for 6 stamps for the USA. He only needed one.

He almost forgot to thank the cashier in his haste to get out. His letter had everything it needed to end at the desired address. Such a tiny thing contained his heart poured in small cursives letters. He was sending a small text, nothing much, to announce to his potential biological father that he existed. Matthew had hesitated a whole 15 minutes, eaten an entire chocolate bar and hugged Adelio before deciding to add that it would be nice to meet. You know, to make sure they were related.

He had first wanted to write on Adelio's computer and then simply print it. He had done so, but the final product had left him displeased. Then came numerous thrown out essays, crumpled sheets and aching wrist. At last, he had something satisfying. And a better handwriting.

Destiny in hands, he hesitated one second in front of the oh-so-red post-box decorated with multicolored maple leaves. In stories, the character who seeks his family either get accepted or rejected. Matthew didn't know if he wanted anything.

Besides, he could be mistaken. His grandfather, Adelio and Miss Smith could have read too much into it and that man wasn't his father. Moreover, it was very much possible that that man didn't live in that house anymore. Maybe he would never receive an answer.

"Excuse me." An old man brushed past him and quickly pushed a bunch of letters into the depths of the red beast. Matthew admired his efficiency and decisiveness. A gust of wind caressed his hair and hit his face. His face reddened.

He pushed the letter in.

Snow started to fall as he made his way to the car.

He could only pray now.

And eat those promised wedges.

* * *

Matthew started to write in a nice notebook and I can do metaphors now. Aye for us!

Sorry for the long wait, folks. I had a looooot to do and not much time. Another chapter should be out before New Year (key word of the sentence is _should_ ).

On another note, what do you think of Adelio and Matthew? By the way, I don't believe lying to a psychologist can help anybody. That's actually a pretty stupid thing to do, considering Matthew's situation. But yeah, stuff happens sometimes.


	7. Chapter 7

_**I wanna fly**_

One nice, warm morning, Alfred Jones marched to his office with a vivid desire to finish working as soon as possible. The day was too beautiful to be passed in a closed space.

People crowded the street and wended their way around him; cars honked and piled up on the road in that early hour. Beggars lined the walls, corners, nooks and crannies, cups set down in front of them, religiously waiting and biding for some coins.

The crime scene that was his city was altered every day, yet never truly changed. People came and went, each with their untold stories and open secrets.

He glanced at the known faces of the vendors of his street and at the sparkling asphalt. He nodded at some and many greeted him. He graced one with his smile.

A passing conversation informed him that the forecaster promised his city rain tomorrow. Alfred slowed down and repressed a shudder. People weren't going to buy summer clothes in those conditions. The council would be moaning in his ears again. He wasn't God, he didn't control the weather.

"Jones!"

-And even if he had that power, he would make it rain over their house just to bother them. He had passed one hour too many trying to calm down nervous investors and partners.

"Alfred Jones!"

Alfred stopped on his tracks. He turned his head sideway, searching for the unknown voice who had howled his name out.

An old hobo, blue blanket draped over his body, stood out like a sore thumb on his little corner of the street. Something about him made the passersby quicken their pace when they passed in front of him. Blue eyes shadowed by a dirty hat were frowning at the younger man.

He blinked. He approached the poor old man with an amiable smile. "Yes?"

The aged man remained silent. The thing crouched against the wall unfurled into a person with fatigued eyes, a lumpy gait and a loaded gun.

He pointed his weapon towards the greatest thing that happened to humanity -Alfred's brain.

His heart jumped a beat. People screamed. A mother pushed her child to the ground. A father covered his family with his body. A young man had heroic thoughts. Someone balled his fists.

The old man caressed the trigger. Blue gazes met. Alfred Jones jumped aside. The gun's deflagration rang through the whole street.

Alfred's face met concrete. Pain exploded near his eye. He rolled away. Tried to get up. His knees screamed against him. People scrambled. They gave the shooter a wide range. Some kissed the ground. Pain burst in his temple. Blood flowed.

The old man blinked. He took aim. Alfred lunged forward. His legs buckled. Not. Quick. Enough.

The old man pulled the trigger. _Click. Click. Click._ No ear-splitting noise. No bullets. No death.

Hard knuckles struke straight. The old man yowled. His hands flew to his stomach. A quick slap sent the gun flying away.

Something red and black and fat tackled the man to the ground. He crushed the hobo.

The old man struggled against his human restraints. "Lemme go, fucker." He roared and aimed for the eyes.

Alfred's knees wavered under him. His shadow hovered over his wannabe killer. He looked around, as people got up, scrambled for their phone or their child. His glasses laid on the concrete, one temple broken. The asphalt was still sparkling.

Alfred breathed out slowly. With each of his breathes, his tensed muscles loosened. Nobody had died. He squinted to see his murderer's face as more people joined the teen playing human shackles. They grounded him and sneaked a kick or two in at the same time.

The old man was still howling profanities. Frenchy French, Alfred could somewhat understand -even with all the croaks and snobby personalities. Québec's slang, not so much. Though he did admire how they could the F-bomb as any word, really. Adverb, noun, adjective, anything was free game.

"T'as passé ma petite fille, p'tit criss de calisse de tabarnak!"

Alfred still understood something about a little girl going somewhere. He had no idea what it had to with him. The guys around didn't either. They looked at each other blankly.

Alfred massaged his temple. Pain flared and blood painted his trembling fingertips. "Listen, sir." He heard himself say with a voice too tranquil, "I'm a law-abiding man."

A flood of insults met his attempt at being civil with a crazy gunner who targeted him. He laughed. God, he was stupid.

The old man growled the way humans were supposed not to. He pulled his first flesh shackle's hair and made an attempt to take his eyeballs out.

Sirens were hollering. A policeman appeared at the corner.

Alfred Jones retrieved his broken glasses and dusted them off. He had other place to be and nicer people to meet.

[Hello, Mister Jones.]

"A Smith & Wesson, 642, Airweight Carry, .38, 5 shots, loaded." The officer whistled appreciatively. Alfred observed him play with the gun with morbid curiosity. "That guy has the Devil's luck. I've never seen this baby jam." He had tried to whisper, but his booming voice covered the rumble and chatter from the other rooms anyway.

Alfred wasn't a very religious man, but he still thanked God in the silence of his heart. He always rewarded and complimented people when they did good thing. They tended to do it again if they felt rewarded. _Interacting with people 101._

The other officer nudged Chatter-box. He sent a not so discreet pointed look toward the victim. Chatter-box let go of the gun and smiled nervously.

Alfred arched his lips up. There he was waiting, in a gloomy room where criminals and victims passed and looked alike. His plastic chair was uncomfortable.

He clasped his hands and immediately regretted his movement. He had torn the skin of his palms against the concrete of the sidewalk. In the heat of the moment, he hadn't noticed that his glasses had split and sunk into his temple. Some officers had put gauze on his wounds, but it didn't kill the pain. His knuckles were bruising too.

He could feel the sensation of his attacker's pot belly against his knuckles. A shudder ran through his hands.

Albert Williams wanted him dead.

It came as a bit of a shock that someone could hate him to the point of living in the street to have a chance to kill him.

Yet. Albert Williams did exactly that. He had wanted Alfred Jones dead. Still wanted him dead, according to the policemen present. Alfred didn't know why. He had never… what he had done shouldn't have landed him an old crazy gunman.

Worn out black pants appeared in front of him. The burly policewoman to whom they belonged looked as tired as he felt. "Alfred Jones?"

Alfred unclasped his hands and smiled. "That would be me, yes."

She didn't smile back, but seemed to appreciate his sunny personality nonetheless. The way her gaze lingered on his smile didn't go unnoticed. "Agent Smith." She introduced herself.

She offered her hand and he shook it gently. Pain coursed through his veins. "You have to answer some questions."

Alfred made a sound of ascent and flexed his hands. Warm pain flared in his fingers. Better to be pleasant and finish it all sooner than swear he had already answered all their questions. They wouldn't listen, force him to stay longer.

She sat down, questionnaire open on her knees. The plastic chair squeaked under her. He stifled a laugh. She looked like a dutiful albeit overgrown schoolgirl, hunched over some urgent homework.

"Have you ever met Albert Williams before?" She asked, voice even. Her eyes betrayed her. She stared at his forehead when she should have stared at his eyes. A timid one, then.

He paused, faked a moment of thought before he shook his golden head. "No, never."

She wrote it down. She turned sideways to have a better view of his handsome face. "And had you his daughter, Marianne Williams?"

He didn't fake the pause that time. "…yes, I knew one Marianne Williams."

She took a folded, faded photograph out and presented it. He recognized the vivid smile, the straight nose and the blue eyes he had so dearly loved before the policewoman opened her mouth again. "Born in October, 1988, to late Rose Tremblay and Albert Williams?"

Mariane had said, a long time ago, that her dad was kind of protective. That her mother had died when she was young. That her favorite season was autumn for its colors and her special day.

"Yes." He whispered. He continued before his interlocutor could ask for details. "We were together for a year."

It was her time to pause. When she spoke again, she enunciated every word carefully and finished her sentence with what sounded like a heartfelt sorry. Apparently, Marianne had committed suicide. Pills.

His bandages turned red.

The rest of their conversation drowned in the buzz of his ears. He wanted to snatch the photo away. He heard himself answer her last questions. _No_ , he hadn't known. _No_ , he had had no contact with her since their break up. _No._

He assured her one last time that he hadn't met Albert Willimas before. He had a brief relationship with his daughter, but he hadn't seen her in forever. She wanted to know how long was forever. He counted his flings on his fingers until he came to her. Nine years ago, he had left Marianne's pretty smile alone.

She thanked him and patted his shoulder.

His smile quivered.

He finished his testimony, signed some unimportant papers, then assured the policemen he would be fine ( _Gentlemen, my workplace is one block away. I'll be able to walk. Thank you for your concern_.). They reminded him one last time that he would be called to bear witness before they let him go on his merry way.

Alfred needed a drink.

He squinted to find his way to heaven. His knees hurt and buckled under him. People gave him a wide personal bubble. From what he could see of his reflection in shops' windows, he looked like someone had stamped on his face then moped the floor with it. A waste of perfectly good looks and an awesome mask for Halloween. A pity they were in July.

He pushed open the door of his favorite place in the whole world.

"Jones, it's not the happy hour yet- Damn, what the hell happened to you?" His hazy view told him it was his bartender.

Alfred fell on his spot. His stool was still comfortable and the bar still smelled of good cigars and old wood. All was well in the world. He waved his hand. "The usual." A command for a drink as much as a statement.

His life did tend to be unusual.

The bartender went to do his own things, ogling his wounds from time to time. The glass made a clear sound when he put it in front of his customer.

Alfred took a sip. The alcohol burned his throat like it was supposed to. He sighed contentedly.

"Jones," his bartender called from the bar, "do I have to close the door?"

Alfred took another sip. "No. They're not on my tail."

The hazy figure hovered near him. "You sure?"

"Yes. Don't worry. I'll leave before the paparazzi get here."

His bartender chuckled. "It's okay if they come. It'll make some good ads for my pub. I can see it; 'Alfred freaking Jones gets smashed at this small pub. They have some good booze!'"

Alfred raised his glass. "That you do." They laughed together.

Alfred Jones, according to the paparazzi of his city, was the definition of success. An American dream came true.

Alfred tended to believe they held some truth in their weave of lies. He was not egoistical, but his photo ought to be under the definition of success in dictionaries. From nothing, he had attained everything. He would content himself with the Urban dictionary for the moment, but soon, the Merriam-Webster would oblige him. He needed to find some dirty stuff on the president or vice-president and voilà.

Alfred Jones was a patient man. Vice-presidents always had dirty stuff to hide.

In the meantime, he bided his time. He had his hands full with life. Money had such a delightful way of making everything easy and so much more complicated. He had an empire that made old and mighty men quiver in their boots, but he also had to manage it so they would continue to do so and not try something reckless. No one was allowed to make the machine he had so painstakingly built tumble down.

Of course, one of the downside and upside of the wonderful country he lived in, the United States of America, was that money rhymed with power. Power had the terrible habit to give and take many things.

It attracted all sort of people, too. Women and men were ready to sell their mother to have his attention. While swearing their undying loyalty on their kitty's soul, they would backstab him.

Everything combined gave fame, a pesky little thing he would have preferred to live without. Running away from paparazzi in the morning after getting out of his lover's apartment got old too fast. And his daughter always crunched her nose at the news, ready to spit vitriol, only to clamp her mouth in the end.

(His daughter hadn't talked to him during weeks after his last (s)exploit.)

Alfred gulped the rest of his drink. His bartender took the glass and refilled it.

He had already been quite famous when he had met Marianne. He was a self-made man who took the fashion world by storm. Unfortunately, newspapers made more money spewing lies about his steamy marriage and stormy divorce than they did talking about his career. So he had been most known at that time as the terrible husband whose empowered wife had left in the dust for a real man.

Marianne had been sweet and so very young when they had met. Obviously legal, but one of her foot had been in adolescence, with a hand in childhood, and eyes on the brink of adulthood. She had had a head filled with wild dreams and impossible things.

She had had an impressionable mind. Marianne had recoiled when she had understood _Alfred Jones_ and her lover was one person. She wanted something serious. He wanted to take care of his daughter and forget his ex-wife.

She had been the first to say it wouldn't work and leave, in the end. In her opinion, he had been the worst option possible for anything, considering his infamous past.

She was the first to leave the living world, too.

He raised his drink up, a good ol' Bourbon, and observed the way the lights changed its color.

[I'm sorry to disturb you. I know you are a busy man.]

Alfred passed the day away from work, nursing a drink in dirty bandaged hands. His least favorite bartender kicked him out with the threat of calling an ambulance if he didn't go home. He then wandered in dark alleys and bright streets, observing the fauna of his city. He ignored the annoying buzz of his phone as he received more messages. He would deal with that later.

Finally, his feet led him back to his house.

He frowned at the dirty stairs. Ache pulsed in his temple. He glanced at his watch before pushing the door open. Amelia wouldn't be there.

She was.

She was reading a book, little thing tucked on a corner of the couch, headphones on. Her favorite spot. She didn't look up immediately. He made his way to the stairs calmly albeit a bit quicker than necessary. He had to pass the sofa and then she wouldn't be able to see-

"Oh..." A short intake. Amelia had looked up and seen the sorry state of his face.

"What did you do to get that?"

 _Nothing_. He told her as such.

She sent him a look between utter disbelief and outright doubt. "Did you treat it?"

He nodded and took off his jacket. Splashing water on it counted, whatever his doctor would say.

He was going to leave the living room when an object caught his eyes. A pamphlet loitered on the coffee table. He squinted. Bold red lettering decorated it, announcing the name of a boarding school in Minnesota.

His mouth twitched. Amelia covered it with her book jerkily before she looked up. _The Ladies' Delight_ glared at his clenched jaw.

"Dad-" She tried to explain herself.

"Shattuck-St. Mary's School… an Episcopalian School? Really?" He couldn't mask the ridicule in his voice.

She crossed her arms. "What does it matter to you?"

His mouth felt dry. _Be an adult. Be an adult._ "It matters to me because I'm not going to pay just so you can make a mess of your life outside of this house." His tone was even when he spat those words.

"I won't."

Information he had never wanted to hear or see filled his mind. "You already do."

He couldn't see her face clearly. Instinct told him her doe, doll blue eyes watered ever so slightly at that time. "I'm not!"

Pure acid threatened to spill from her eyes into his heart. "I know everything about your little outings, dear." He forced the words out.

"What- did you, did you follow me again?" She floundered. "You have no right!"

Alfred flinched. "I'm your father."

"You're not!" She cried back.

He clenched and relaxed his jaw several times. He tasted blood. "I am your legal guardian."

Amelia turned back, light brown hair facing him and covering her downcast face. The stairs squeaked under her stamping feet. "And you won't leave this house until college." He asserted.

She had heard him loud and clear, he knew. She had slammed her door hard.

He let himself fall on the couch where she had been peaceful a minute ago.

He massaged his nape. A sigh escaped him. Blood really tasted like shit.

 _Dear daughter of mine, a crazy old man tried to kill me._

 _-You're not my father._

It wasn't the first she told him that. It wouldn't be the last. She always said that when she was upset against him. And upset she often was. He wouldn't indulge her every time she wanted something. He had done so when she was younger and she had become impossible. The smallest hint that she wouldn't get her way had made her roll on the ground, crying and yelling.

 _You're not my real father._

He knew what she was up to when he wasn't home. She could spend days at her friends' house, away from school, spending money on things she didn't need. He had been forced to forbid any uses of his bank account, except in emergencies. She still tried to use his cards sometimes, but she didn't know the password that could let her use them in normal situation. She could only take small amounts out from the 'emergency' account.

Cue to furious fits. She couldn't understand why she couldn't have her own account and enough money to boast to her friends. All of them already had a credit card. All of them could easily feed a family of four during a year with the amount they spent in one measly month.

Alfred knew the value of money. His daughter and her so called friends didn't.

That was one of the reason she had a bodyguard on her heels at all hours. Plus, she went to too many parties and shady places where things could happen. He didn't fancy the idea of having a pregnant teen daughter. On several occasions, Amelia had thrown objects at him, rambling about the fact that her romantic life was none of his business. More like sex life, considering the people and places.

She had the immaturity to throw objects at him and call him names, he had the maturity to protect her. She would have sex when she would be mature enough to understand its consequences. Sex was not something that should be given to everybody, in any places, for any reasons.

Amelia had argued that it wasn't his place to talk.

 _You're not even my real father._

God... he loved her. He hoped he would still do when he would be old and bald.

[My name is Matthew and I might be your son.]

He texted his girl's bodyguard as he downed his first espresso of the day. Amelia had already left for school without eating breakfast. He had sent a message concerning his wayward daughter's healthy snack; yogurt and fruits, perhaps. Her bodyguard, Something Something, sent back a photo of the two items ready to be delivered to Amelia during her next break three minutes later.

He smiled. Competent people were so easy to like.

He put his head out to glance at his mailbox out of habit, not really expecting anything. Yet there was a white envelope laying there. He put his hand out, cursed the cold that stung his hands and reached inside.

It was a small letter from Canada, Ontario. The maple stamps gave it away before the address did. He weighted it up.

Alfred seldom received ones that weren't about business. Even his mistresses preferred a good tongue-lashing on the phone or tearful promises of forever by text. Alfred thanked God for the wonder that was technology. He could easily ignore a text for days while letters were still problematic. Letters tended to be about important matters.

Taxes. Threats. Love letters.

The holy trinity of his life.

The last billet-doux had been rather inventive. Something about being all alone in Siberia, miles of snow and cold as only companions. Hunting and doing stuff that would have made a pornographic writer fluster. Alfred preferred warmer weather and less angst, thank you very much. He had ditched her soon after.

He opened the letter.

He skimmed through the first sentences, stopped somewhere between the nonexistent niceties and the nuclear bomb someone wanted him to swallow.

He laughed. His laugh bounced on the walls, filled the void and made his eyes cry. A son. Him. Marianne's. Somewhere in Canada.

Such a good joke.

He looked at the address. And threw the letter in the bin.

Alfred left his dwelling with a good slam and stalked to his office. The winds hit his face and reminded him to buy a new winter coat. Men and women swaggered around in their bulky coats, proud to showcase the fact that they were the Michelin Man's half-siblings. He would get time to buy something nice, someday. Or Chan Yu could do it for him… Alfred shook his head at his not-so-genius idea. Better not poke the sleeping dragon. She would choose a neon yellow autumn coat to spite him.

He pushed the glass door of his company open. "Hello, Mister Jones."

He nodded at the receptionist. "Hello, Janine. How do you do? Any good news?"

"Wonderfully! Chan Yu is preparing your espresso." She answered cheerfully. That counted as a good new, he supposed. He sped up to leave the fridge they called a hall. Thrice blessed warmth awaited him in his office. He shook off his jacket and threw it on the floor. The piles of paperworks on the desk and other surfaces demoralized him.

Some people envied his position. Some people had an IQ under minus 100. Movies always exaggerated everything. He hadn't a uselessly big office, a gloomy view on other grey buildings or a coffee machine. People who could wallow in luxury hadn't time to lead a company to success.

The last one had been forced out of his office after his first hallucinations though. Chan Yu's order, not his. What a sad reality. People listened more to his secretary than to him.

At least, he could boast that he had a much better chair than any of his subordinates. He had hand-picked it when Chan Yu's comments about his cracking and aging back became too much to bear. Alfred Jones was not getting old. He was simply becoming more of a gentleman with each passing season.

Mountains of paperwork awaited him, ready to be read and slayed by his mighty pen. Then, he would meet his associates to talk about some urgent matters that weren't serious, woo brands, bargain with companies, meet his designers and hope he would not barf after seeing their new ideas.

In the midst of those, he would find some time to drink one espresso (or four), nap, eat junk and glare at the clock.

He twirled his pen before he opened his laptop. Mails, more mails, and slightly important things to do. To accept his team's demands to have a coffee machine or to refuse yet again, that was the question. Chanel had snatched one of his models for the next season. He needed to either destroy that model's career or annihilate his very existence. Would silk look more American than wool for the new men suits? Some men had petitioned to have the same advantages women enjoyed during their maternity leave. To which some women petitioned against, because men didn't bear children for nine months and didn't need the same amount of days off.

Alfred gave the men a part of what they wanted. More paid leave, more time off to take care of their child if needed. Anymore and it would cost too much. The kindergarten's project was still a hot topic though.

He was not a fan of the idea of children running around his building. Chan Yu argued that they would be imprisoned in a tiny room with workers paid to keep them inside anyway. He would see no toddler drinking his coffee, she claimed. Alfred didn't trust toddlers and even less his secretary's promises on that matter. She turned into poodle every time something cute showed up.

He sagged in his chair and rubbed his hair.

Children could be such an ordeal. Was his company ready for them? Was he ready…?

An insidious thought made his hands tremble. _What if…?_ Unruly fingers typed the address a conman provided. Google maps found a small farm surrounded by lakes, in a part of Canada where every town seemed to be named after a lake. It was in the west where everybody spoke English but knew enough French to sound crazy. Just like Marianne.

Minutes ticked by.

"Boss, here's your espresso."

He glanced up to see his cup of goodness carried by his favorite (and only) secretary. It smelled good. Chan Yu's face twitched when she saw he had not finished his slavery papers. A blank noh mask appeared on her pretty little face and stared at him with soulless eyes. Alfred could feel the bout of nagging coming.

His hand caught the pad of his laptop when he straightened up. He had opened a new tab. Flights. "Chan Yu, clear my appointments." He said slowly, the beginning of a plan forming in his great mind.

Amber eyes narrowed. "For the day?"

He didn't answer immediately. Internet was slow and wouldn't tell him how much time he would need to get there. When the result appeared, he got up and gulped his espresso down. It tasted less bitter than the money he was going to pour down the drain. "For the week."

"Jones." Oh God, he hated when she called him 'Jones'. It sounded like 'you-vulgar-rat' in her mouth. "You're supposed to meet with your stylists. You've been putting that off for days." Somehow, the way she emphasized the last word told her she wasn't happy with him. Again. Yu Chan was one of the only women in their galaxy who could resist his dashing charm.

He shrugged and gave her a wide personal bubble as he passed by her. "Meet them on my stead. Choose something not too ugly. Otherwise our teens might actually see we're selling them atrocities."

He didn't trust the way she gripped his empty cup. Not one bit. His last wound had left a scar on his otherwise perfect face. He didn't want another one. "You have two charity balls and-"

Alfred cut her off. "Go on my stead. You'll be perfect."

Her eyes looked a tiny bit less narrowed. Bingo. She liked compliments after all. "What do I tell your daughter?"

"The usual." He took his jacket and ignored the whispered 'your grandma'. "Away for business. Can't talk until I'm back."

He ran away before she could curse him for real. He was pretty sure her great-great-grandmother had been a witch.

The ride to his house was quick and uneventful. He took a small suitcase, shoved stuff into it and kicked his door open. Just as he fumbled with his keys on the threshold, he remembered the letter. It was where he had thrown it, laying innocently on the top of recyclable trashes. It took it and bade goodbye to his empty house.

The ride to the airport was even less eventful. He had too much time to think.

In the parking lot, Alfred stayed in his car, head against the headrest. He reached for his pocket. He stopped his movement before his hand brushed the soft fabric of his jacket, because there was no damn cigs here. He had stopped smoking years ago.

(The acrid taste of cigs reminded him of better times.)

He searched blindly for his phone. The number he wanted to dial was listed as a 'friend'. According to the phone, he hadn't called that friend in 2 years.

He put the phone near his ear. Three buzes later, a grouchy voice asked him what he wanted. "Hey, Sam. I've got a job for ya."

Katty Perry last 'hit' frazzled his brain through the phone before a ragged voice did. [I am threatening no more people for your sorry ass, Jones.]

"I know. The boys do alright without you, by the way."

Sam chuckled. He turned up the volume of his horrendous song to spit him, Alfred was sure. [That's cuz I trained them. What do you want?]

"Information. Marianne Williams and Matthew Williams."

[I need more than 2 names, idiot. I'm not some miracle worker-]

"A Canadian mother and son duo. She's dead, suicide, and he lives in a host family in Ontario, Canada. He turned 8 on the first of July. She was my ex, 9 years ago."

The song finally stopped and Alfred breathed in relief. Until a Miley Cyrus' song during her twerk period rang in his car. [A stunner with blue eyes and blond hair that happens to be one of your exes? Found them. What do you want? How many men she needed to forget your greatness? I think the count's zero.]

His thumb hovered over the red end call button. He silently considered his options and came to the conclusion that he would call Sam again. That wretched pop-listener would ask for more money because he didn't want to hear low blows about his dead ex. There was an actual reason he hadn't called him in two years, after all. "Everything starting from 10 years ago."

Sam whistled. [Sure. Send the money and you'll get it in two weeks.]

"No." He lightly tapped the wheel, following the beat of his heart. The worn leather was cold under his fingers. "I need it in the next three days."

Sam grumbled under his breath. [It'll cost triple.]

"Get to work."

He swiped left and heard no more quips about his sex life. He unceremoniously threw his phone aside. One thing's done, the rest needed his attention. The conman who lured him better had a good explanation for all the money he was throwing at people.

[My mother's name was Marianne Williams.]

4 hours of flight and 3 good hours of driving later, he was in a town named after a lake, in the middle of wilderness and lakes.

Well, more like in the neighborhood of that town. He had found his base, a small cabin he had rented for a laughable sum. The comfort equaled the rent. He bought some junk-food in the only market for miles and had a troubled sleep through the rest of the day. He blamed the bed; it squeaked with each of his movements.

The owner, a sweet granny who cooked tasty muffins, had the grace to not ask any insensitive questions. His name was now Julian Felice. He was taking some time from the hustle and bustle of the city. He wanted to enjoy the snow and that was it.

She smiled at his reason and pointed him places of interest. She also answered his inquiries.

His address did lead to a farm belonging to a childless couple. They were a host family. 2 boys. A teenager and a young child.

On the second day, Sam played dead. Alfred texted him to remind of his task and edge at the idea of a bonus.

His informant had the grace to read his messages but not to answer.

Alfred was left to stare at his short letter. It answered some questions, asked new ones and opened a can of worms Alfred hadn't dared to poke since his divorce.

Matthew Williams –or whoever wrote the letter- gave details about Marianne. Little things only someone extremely close to her could have known. That little beauty spot in the hollow of her neck or her love for mystery novels, for example. (She had harped about the genius of Agatha Christie so much during one of their outings, Alfred had been jealous.)

Matthew Williams could be his son. An impossible possibility.

Or, more realistically, someone toyed with Alfred for giggles. He would make them pay.

He drove to the other town, the one with actual shops. A small general store still survived next to a small superstore. He dived into the tiny shop. He had gone too many times in the other one to fetch stuff. They had cameras.

The sales assistant ogled at him like he was some sort of alien. Alfred supposed anybody who wasn't a regular ought to be one for such an old shop. He resolutely fixed his gaze on the array of food. He was not guilty of any crimes yet.

The only customer of the shop took enough food to last a week. As he went to pay for the items, he noticed a small polar teddy. It laid Next to the antic cash register. The plastic black beads stared back at him. He passed his hand through the white fur. Fluffy fur licked his palm.

Alfred put it next to his other items and paid for it. It was cute.

Back in the car, he placed it on the passenger's seat. "You're with me now, buddy."

The gloomy light of his car flashed in its plastic eyeballs. Alfred started the engine. "You see, I'm currently in the middle of nowhere because my dead lover might have had a son."

The wheels waded in the snow. "Crazy, right?" He sighed. "I'm not the father, though. I can't be."

The bear didn't answer. Alfred stayed silent after that. Talking to a plush toy wasn't considered sane, even by his standards.

In the end, he drove his rented car in the vicinity of the farm. He could wait in that cold town until Sam decided to move his ass and do some work, or he could fish for information himself.

He surveyed the place. It was a small sized thing, giving off a bucolic feel and no nose crunching smell. The sign read _Martin's biological farm_. Was the chief of the whole conspiracy a vegetarian, or worst, a vegan? That would be novel. Marvel ought to have a vegan villain. They had one who wielded whips, one not eating meat or honey would not look worse. Destroying humanity to preserve Earth could be a good motive for a vegan villain.

He left his warm car and went to knock on the side door.

A woman his age opened it. "Hello!" He greeted timidly. "Sorry to bother, but I'm lost and my tank's half empty. Could you give me directions…?"

"Oh, of course! Come in." She fully opened the door and let him in. Blessed warmth engulfed him.

Mrs. Martin didn't seem to recognize him. He stood on a black carpet, watching as snow melted on his shoes. She took out a map of the area and showed him the way to his 'destination'.

"So, turn left, and then drive until the town. In front of the church, turn right. It'll take you 1 hour to get there. Do you have enough gas?" She pointed at tiny dots he didn't care about.

He rubbed his hands together in an effort to warm them. "I think so. There's a station there?"

She noticed his action. "You poor thing, what are you doing without gloves?" Yet another woman who mistook his real age thanks to his baby-face.

"I never thought it would be this cold." It wasn't a lie.

She chuckled. "Welcome to Canada." She had noticed his accent then. "Sit down, I'll get you something hot. Coffee or tea?"

He shook the last dreg of snow off his shoes before setting foot on the tiles of her kitchen. He sat on the chair closest to the door. "Coffee, please."

She flew to the counter and turned on the coffee machine. "Sugar? Milk?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. I like it black."

She pulled face, hovering near the fridge. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, thank you."

She served the dark steaming delicacy in a cup and sat in front of him. "For the gas, there's a station there. It's the only one for three towns. Can you imagine that?"

"That sounds terrible."

She nodded, expression serious. "It is; they never have enough. We need to buy it in bulk in the south. Our tractor wouldn't work otherwise."

He sipped and smiled through the tongue burn. "What do you grow?"

"Oh, a lot of different vegetables. Squash, tomatoes, onion, carrots… We are part of an organic cooperative."

Alfred had never had a great interest in farming before. He still asked questions and made an effort to look earnest. Chloe Martin chattered her answers. She peppered her every phrases with information about her town, life and family.

Farming ran in the family. Her husband's had started working the land before Canada became an English's colony. Hers arrived with the wave of Eastern Europeans immigrants who wanted to have a better life in the prairies.

Her eyes wandered one second to the clock. "Oh my, it's almost time. My boys will be back from school soon."

Alfred bared his teeth in a smile. _Now_. "How many sons do you have?"

"Oh, they're not my sons. I have two little misfits. One is in highschool and the other's in elementary. Abu and Matthew."

 _Matthew. And Aladdin's sidekick?_

Chloe thought he hadn't understood what she had meant. "We are a host family." She informed him. "It's a bit different from foster ones. We take care of troubled kids, try to let them see something good after all the hurt they went through. Most kids who come here are difficult children." She put a certain emphasis on 'difficult'.

Alfred wanted her to elaborate. So he complimented her. "That's admirable."

"Oh, not that much. Abu had a terrible, terrible father and his mother was out of picture. The truly admirable people are the ones who got him out of that household."

Chloe played with her fingers, before linking them. "As for Matthew, that poor child." She shook her head. "There are things children should never live."

Alfred leaned towards her. _Thump._

"He found his mother dead on her bed." She said quietly, playing with her wedding ring. _Thump._ Alfred felt his hair stand. "His only family member alive, his grandfather - he is from Québec- refused to take care of him after her suicide."

Alfred let out a shaky breath. Albert Williams was indeed a crazy bastard.

Chloe smiled, trying to brighten the dampened mood. "Matthew isn't especially bright, but he is loveable. Once, I saw him knock over a chair and then apologize." She laughed softly, like a mother.

He checked his watch; a quarter to 4. He set down his empty cup of coffee and smiled pleasantly. "Thank you for everything. I gotta go. I'm meeting Alfred Jones." He baited her.

Chloe blinked and squinted thoughtfully. "Is he Bertha's cousin?"

 _No_. "I don't know. He is a bit known in New York."

"What does he do?"

 _I built a fashion empire._ "Oh, he's the second best baker of his street. And he also works in an association for the right of bonsai trees. He wanted some time alone in the wilderness to channel his inner tree force, so he came here. The people at the association want him back. He's their driving force."

The woman made a good impression of a gold fish. She snapped out of it rather quickly. "You have quite the interesting friend."

"That I do, ma'am."

He left after that. Her smile was stiff but she didn't act too guarded even after learning he was a loony's friend. He had nothing more to say to her without sounding like a criminal.

He got his information.

Alfred dunked inside his car. Just in time. A brown teen appeared at the corner, arm slung around a neck hidden in a green scarf. Matthew Williams did not look like his alleged mother. He was a slim little thing, and not much aside.

Alfred started the engine and speeded his way out of the scene. The white teddy bear judged him with its unfeeling eyes and cute paws. He threw it in the back.

[She died last winter. My grandfather found you last summer.]

Alfred parked his dingy car in the church's parking. He put his arms on the wheel and rested his chin against his joined hands.

The school's bell rang and kids escaped from its claws to play in the hard snow. They didn't seem to feel the cold that turned his breath white inside the car. _Must be humanoids._

Matthew was somewhere in their midst, playing in one of the snow fort. They would stay outside fifteen minutes, plus one minute to line up before marching into the monster's belly. Then they wouldn't get out again before noon.

The bells rang again. Children stumbled and bounced to encircle their teachers.

His stiff back made him move. He rolled his shoulders. His elbow somehow knocked the passenger's headrest away. "Shit." The armrest was the second to fall off. "Damn."

He hopped from the car before he broke anything else. All the kids had disappeared from the yard. He dusted the snow off his rear view mirror. Miraculously, they didn't break or fall off.

He patted the roof and prayed the thing would hold for a few more days. He needed to drive his lemon some more. Leave it in the middle of nowhere and come back on foot to lurk around the school again.

He glanced at his clothes. Changing them before coming back would be a good idea. Dyeing his hair could also be an option. Not wearing his glasses and hunching over to seem older too.

Alfred F. Jones was not a stalker. Never had been in any way or form and never wanted to either. He didn't want to be seen as one. Shadowing a boy, hiding in his car and other incongruous places, eating store-brought junk and acting completely stalkerish did not mean he was one.

He was… passing the time while he waited for the confirmation that Matthew Williams was not his son.

Marianne had been awfully beautiful. Why wouldn't she have had other lovers after him? He would find that boy's father and confront him. What kind of man didn't take care of his own flesh and blood?

Plus, the boy had a beautiful handwriting. The kind children didn't learn anymore in school. And he was kind of cute too. Any father would be proud to have an intelligent, good-looking son.

He got inside the car again. The motor made an interesting sound before it decided it did want to function. He made it safely back to his den. Feeble wi-fi told him Chan Yu was getting angry at his unresponsiveness.

 **Not my fault. Sorry.**

She sent him an emoticon of a glaring old granny. _**ಹ**_ _ **_**_ _ **ಹ**_

Alfred hesitated before he typed an answer. **I'm almost done.**

Her text appeared immediately. **Be there for Christmas.** **ㅎ** **_** **ㅎ**

The emoticon she chose resembled her noh mask. Shivers ran along his spine. He sagely decided not to text her until he was back in New York.

He scratched his three days old beard. His phone buzzed in his hand. He let out a sigh. Sam had finally answered him.

Alfred had a feeling he knew what it would be about. Marianne had had other lovers after him and Matthew Williams wasn't his. Ah. He didn't have to read Sam's text to know that. A number of people had made it their mission in life to remind that he couldn't have biological children.

He ought to leave that tiny town, forget the golden-haired nine years old boy that couldn't be his and move on. The wise move would be to go back to his incomprehensible daughter, uninteresting women and a career that did not reel him anymore.

His thumb hovered over the screen. Hope was a detestable feeling. He clicked on the text.

A small memo filled with their gabbling recounting 10 years of a woman's life and death. A few sentences described a dull life and a duller death. A short, innocuous sentence at the end answered the question he hadn't asked. _Your hidden Dragon met no other crouching Tiger._

Which meant that Sam needed to stop reading wuxia novels and using their distasteful pervy idioms. It also meant; _your woman had no other man._

He threw his phone aside.

Matthew Williams.

Matthew Jones.

Alfred ruined his knuckles against the wall.

* * *

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..

...

Helloooooooooooo.

Just wanted to tell you all that I edited the first chapters. Starting from the 4th chapter, I also rewrote certain passages. That's why this chapter took so long to get out. Furthermore, Alfred is a difficult character for me. This chapter was not supposed to be this long... but I wanted to get him right.

On another note, why does Alfred believe he can't have children? Any ideas? Also, I made him a bit out of character for a reason. He learnt this ex killed herself, his relationship with his daughter is complicated (to say the least) and he might have a child and stuff. Life's not easy.

"T'as passé ma fille, […]" You killed my daughter, [insert the worst insults you know]. Alfred misunderstood the meaning of the sentence. His almost killer used Québec's slang. In French, "passer" actually means something close to "move around".

For the French speakers around; au Québec, "passer quelqu'un" est une expression utilisée dans les milieux carcéraux pour parler d'un meurtre.

 _The Ladies' Delight:_ One of Émile Zola's books. It's a good read, though it may be a difficult one. It's a bit wordy.

I hope you like nyo!China's cameo in this fic. We will see her again. Also, her 'your grandma' is quite the big insult in China. Insulting one's family is a big no-no there.

Finally, I kinda need a Beta reader. Halp. I actually used the word 'feminazis' a bit out of context. Sorry. Gonna do my walk of shame.


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